NOWADAYS 


GEORGEA.HIBBARD 


Bought  at. 

8ERTRAND 

140  Pacific  A 
LONG  BEACH 
r.Ai  I  pn  B  w  i 


"STANDING   HAND   IN    HAND." 


[See  page  49.] 


NOWADAYS 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY  GEORGE  A.  HIBBARD 

AUTHOR   OF 
'IDUNA.   AND   OTHER   STORIES  "    ETC..  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
1893 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NOWADAYS I 

"  THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET  IN  LIFE  "  .    37 

"A   MAD   WORLD,   MY   MASTERS" 63 

"GUILTY  SIR  GUY" I05 

IN  THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE 153 

A   FLIRT o 


2046112 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


STANDING  HAND  IN  HAND"  .     .     .    Frontispiece. 

EDITH    HAD    DRAWN     THE     CURTAIN 

ABOUT  HER" Facing  p.  72 

THE  ROOM  HAD  BECOME  QUITE 

DARK" "  198 

BOTH  WERE  SILENT  FOR  A  MO 
MENT "  .  "  266 


NOWADAYS 


NOWADAYS 

Nowadays. 

As  Philip  Santvoord  steps  out  of  the  door 
way  he  glances  at  the  old  butler,  who,  after 
giving  him  his  hat  and  stick,  stands  with 
one  hand  on  the  outer  door-knob,  in  an  at 
titude  of  perfect  deference,  yet  without  los 
ing  that  severe  look  which  shows  that  such 
as  he  grow  old  with  increasing  doubt  and 
live  mainly  to  state  objections.  He  had 
been  in  the  house  in  the  time  of  Philip's 
father.  He  was  as  much  an  inheritance  as 
the  "Juno"  Madeira,  and  as  incrusted  with 
fine  old  habitudes  as  the  bottles  of  that 
incomparable  wine  with  incremental  dust, 
and  in  such  an  old  family  servant  certain 
inward  reservations  semi-openly  expressed, 
as  to  the  doings  of  Philip's  generation  in 
general  and  Philip's  doings  in  particular, 
were  only  natural  and  to  be  expected. 


4  NOWADAYS 

"The  flowers  will  be  sent  as  I  directed  ?" 

"Yes,  Mr  Philip." 

"  And  Wilson  is  to  be  here  with  the  cart 
at  half-past  five — not  five,  mind." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Philip." 

A  great  deal  might  happen,  as  Santvoord 
knew,  before  afternoon,  a  great  deal  of  vital 
importance  to  him,  but  that  was  no  reason 
why  any  one  —  nowadays  —  should  bother 
himself  by  disarranging  the  programme  of 
his  day, 

Philip  paused  for  a  moment  and  then 
added,  "That  will  be  all." 

The  old  butler,  disapprobation  in  every 
line  of  his  face,  turned  and  shut  the  door 
with  a  moderate  bang,  which  sounded  like 
a  well-bred  ban  upon  all  modern  devices. 

As  Philip  walked  with  quick  but  unhur 
ried  tread  along  the  cross  -  street  his  lips 
just  moved,  and  he  hummed  to  himself  the 
latest  plaintive  melody  that  had  been  wafted 
across  the  world  from  some  London  music 
hall.  A  score  of  things  awaited  his  at 
tention  downtown  ;  he  had  every  reason  to 
walk  with  a  heavy  heart  and  bent  brow ,  but 
still  he  hummed  and  whistled  the  simple 


NOWADAYS  5 

air,  as  pretty  and  as  common  as  the  little 
singer  who  had  first  given  it  success  at 
"The  Empire"  or  "The  Alhambra,"  with 
the  aspect  of  a  man  who  had  not  a  care  in 
the  world.  Is  it  not  to-day — nowadays — 
when  no  obtruding  thought  should  distract, 
no  intruding  memory  weaken ;  when  the 
present  is  the  focus  of  so  much  that  there 
is  no  time  for  regret  or  apprehension  ?  And 
so  Santvoord  walked  briskly  along  the  nar 
row  side-street,  filled  with  the  animation  of 
the  late-stirring  city  life,  cheerfully,  almost 
gayly,  ready  to  meet  what  the  day  had  in 
store  for  him  —  like  the  school-master  of 
Lynn  when  he  confronted  the  jury  that  was 
to  give  him  life  or  death,  "  equal  to  either 
fortune." 

It  might  certainly  be  thought  a  trifle  agi 
tating  to  begin  the  day  with  the  conscious 
ness  that  before  nightfall  one  may  be  either 
a  pauper  or  a  millionnaire,  with  the  chances 
largely  in  favor  of  the  former.  And  this 
was  the  predicament  in  which  Santvoord 
found  himself ;  this  the  prospect  he  was 
compelled  to  face  on  this  particular  morn 
ing.  Yet  it  all  seemed  to  him  in  the  regular 


6  NOWADAYS 

order  of  things,  for  none  more  thoroughly 
than  he  lived  the  life  of  his  time,  when  all 
is  possible  and  anything  probable — if  it  be 
only  sufficiently  strange  and  sudden — -and 
when  such  change  as  might  come  to  him  he 
felt  would  be  strictly  "all  in  the  day's  work" 
of  the  day — of  to  day. 

For  the  clay  was  a  part  of  these  strange 
days -in  which  we  live,  and  the  exact  mo 
ment  in  which  he  was  living  and  breathing 
and  having  his  being  was  a  small  fraction 
of  that  most  marvellous  of  all  time  —  the 
time  that  we  know  as  nowadays. 

Nowadays. 

Nowadays,  when  the  world  spins  so  very 
rapidly  down  the  "  grooves  of  time  "  that  a 
strange  vertigo  makes  us  light-headed ;  now 
adays,  when  the  beliefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears 
that  have  brought  us  so  far  are  cast  by  the 
roadside  as  impedimenta  in  the  on -rush; 
nowadays,  when  we  have  "changed  all  that,'1 
and  change  is  but  the  beginning  of  change. 
Nowadays,  when  the  clash  of  battle  is  the 
loudest,  the  contest  the  fiercest,  the  weap 
ons  of  longest  range  and  keenest  edge ; 
when  gunpowder  seems  slow  and  dynamite 


NOWADAYS  7 

almost  ineffective,  when  heroism  abides  al 
though  chivalry  is  gone,  when  sacrifice  ex 
ists  although  policy  controls.  Nowadays, 
when  the  pace  is  so  great  that  to  stumble 
is  to  be  overrun,  but  when  failure  yesterday 
may  be  success  to-day  or  at  latest  to-mor 
row.  Nowadays,  which  is  like  all  other 
days  and  yet  so  unlike  any.  Nowadays, 
when  every  day  works  wonders  the  sight 
of  which  would  have  made  Prospero  break 
his  staff  and  "  drown "  his  book  deeper 
"than  did  ever  plummet  sound." 

Nowadays. 

Nowadays,  when  nothing  is  so  distant 
that  it  may  not  touch  you;  nothing,  however 
close,  so  near  that  you  can  wholly  under 
stand  its  consequences.  Nowadays,  when 
the  difficulties  of  a  South  American  republic 
can  convulse  European  money  centres,  can 
embarrass  the  American  financial  world,  and 
can  on  this  morning  send  Philip  Santvoord, 
an  American  citizen,  resident  in  this  city  of 
New  York,  running  up  the  stairs  leading  to 
that  iron  chalet  on  stilts  known  as  the  — 
Street  station  of  the  Sixth  Avenue  "  ele 
vated  "  at  quicker  pace  than  he  would  have 


8  NOWADAYS 

used  if  there  had  been  no  such  trouble  ;  for 
so  remote,  so  near,  so  quick  are  causes,  so 
widespread,  so  ramified  their  consequences 
— nowadays. 

If  in  nothing  else,  Santvoord  differed 
from  most  of  his  contemporaries  in  this — 
he  thought  very  little  about  himself;  he 
hardly  ever  had  time.  He  had  always 
lived  too  thoroughly  the  complex  life  of 
nowadays — was  too  much  a  part  of  the 
time  —  to  recognize  how  characteristic  he 
really  was ;  for  to  be  so  completely  ab 
sorbed  in  a  thing,  so  assimilated  with  all 
around,  is  to  lose  self-consciousness,  to  be 
come  insensible,  as  it  were,  of  one's  own 
identity.  Therefore  he  did  not  recognize 
anything  exceptional  in  his  position  this 
morning,  considering  it,  if  he  gave  it  exact 
thought  at  all,  only  something  uncomforta 
ble,  something  slightly  disturbing,  yet  nat 
ural  and  quite  as  it  ought  to  be.  How 
could  it,  all  things  considered,  possibly  be 
otherwise  when,  with  all  else,  the  desires, 
demands,  needs  of  nowadays  beset  and  pos 
sess  men  as  did  the  devils  of  old,  inexora 
ble  imps  that  no  exorcism  can  cast  out  ? 


NOWADAYS  Q 

Had  not  his  inheritance — the  fortune  old 
Santvoord  had  derived  from  his  lazy-going 
China  trade,  and  which  had  once  looked  so 
magnificent —  become,  in  comparison  with 
the  wealth  of  nowadays,  something  really 
inconsiderable  ?  And  would  he  not  be  rec 
reant  to  the  faith  and  duty  of  his  order  if 
he  did  not  take  the  field  and  seek  to  win  as 
others  all  about  him  were  doing  ? 

Rushing  along  in  mid-air,  the  crowded 
glittering  street  below,  the  empty,  glowing 
sky  above,  with  stretches  of  unequal  roofs 
on  either  side  leading  the  eye  to  a  horizon 
jagged  with  towers  and  chimneys,  or  now 
shut  in  between  walls  that  blocked  the 
view,  it  seemed  to  Santvoord,  as  it  has 
seemed  to  others  even  less  imaginative, 
that  he  was  being  lightly  borne  through 
space,  in  a  magical  realization  in  practical 
nowadays  of  the  flying  carpet  of  Schehere- 
zade's  tale.  Glancing  about  the  car,  he 
nodded  to  three  or  four  men  whom  he 
knew,  noticing,  as  he  did  this,  more  than 
one  wrinkled  brow  and  thoughtful,  absent 
look.  A  panic  was  imminent.  Before  the 
gas  had  blazed  or  the  electric  lights  had 


10  NOWADAYS 

shone  the  evening  previous,  the  news  of 
the  turn  in  affairs  had  been  flashed  up 
town.  It  had  been  an  anxious  day,  the 
market  had  been  unsteady,  and  there  had 
been  a  shiver  of  apprehension.  At  night, 
hotel  corridors  had  been  crowded  with 
curious  or  excited  men  ;  wise  "  I-told-you- 
so's,"  were  frequent  in  all  the  clubs.  This 
morning  the  excitement  had  the  quiet  of 
intensity,  and  men  were  hastening  "  down 
town  "  with  the  aspect  of  reserves  hurried 
on  to  a  doubtful  battle-field. 

The  evident  but  suppressed  agitation  of 
those  about  him  was  assuring  to  Santvoord. 
He  felt  as  the  duellist  might  when  he  sees 
his  adversary  tremble  as  he  comes  on  the 
ground.  These  whom  he  knew  in  the  car, 
or  such  as  these,  were  to  be  his  adversaries  ; 
and  to  one  of  his  instincts,  his  training,  his 
time — to  one  living  nowadays — to  whom 
the  philosophy  of  him  of  Malmesbury,  that 
life  is  warfare,  seems  practically  true — any 
sign  of  weakness  in  humanity,  which  to  him 
existed  only  to  be  overcome,  gave  a  certain 
stringent  pleasure.  He  himself  felt  no  fear, 
no  point  of  alarm  touched  him,  no  shade  of 


NOWADAYS  II 

apprehension  stole  over  any  faculty ;  there 
was  a  strain  of  exhilaration  rather — exhila 
ration  such  as  is  sometimes  given  by  the 
spur  of  keen  pain.  He  might  have  to  give 
up  everything,  even  the  city  he  loved  so  well 
—  the  city  that  held  no  secrets  from  him, 
that  he  knew  with  knowledge  so  inwrought 
in  his  nature  as  to  seem  almost  instinct ; 
the  knowledge  the  Indian  has  of  the  prairie, 
the  Arab  of  the  desert ;  the  knowledge  that 
only  the  long-dweller  in  a  city  can  obtain  of 
the  peopled  wilderness  it  in  one  sense  is. 
He  might  have  to  give  up  the  costly  appli 
ances  of  this  incongruous  modern  life — 
that  life  in  which  the  vestiges  of  yesterday 
and  the  aspects  of  to-day  are  so  strangely 
mingled  in  one  mass  of  anomalousness  ;  he 
might  be  compelled  to  yield  up  all  consid 
erable  place  in  the  harlequin  existence  of 
nowadays,  when  the  world,  counting  by  its 
centuries,  will  soon  pass  from  its  "  teens," 
and,  with  the  exultant  joy  of  a  young  prod 
igal,  at  last  come  into  full  possession  of 
its  own,  stand  ready  for  a  "  good  time," 
but  still  rather  appalled  by  the  thought  of 
grave  responsibilities  and  great  possibilities. 


12  NOWADAYS 

"  Bleecker  !"  called  the  conductor. 

The  shout  startled  him.  He  must  soon 
leave  the  train. 

And  Madeleine  ?  With  all  the  force  with 
which  a  thought  that  we  have  striven  to 
disregard  and  keep  down  finally  asserts  it 
self,  with  all  the  confused  arrearage  of 
doubt,  dismay,  and  conjecture  with  which 
such  a  thought  at  last  arises,  the  idea  of 
Madeleine  Verschoyle  suddenly  arose  in 
his  mind,  and  filled  it  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  else.  He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  seen 
her  at  the  opera  the  night  before.  The 
party  with  which  she  came  had  entered 
late,  and  as  she  slowly  advanced  to  the 
front  of  the  box  before  unoccupied  —  the 
only  break  and  vacancy  in  the  whole  glit 
tering  tier — he,  turning  with  many  another, 
saw  her,  and  for  the  thousandth  time 
thought  how  noticeable  if  not  beautiful 
she  was ;  for  there  was  nothing  accus 
tomed  in  her  aspect ;  only  a  beholder  with 
all  modern  perceptions,  informed  by  all 
modern  acquirement,  could  really  realize 
her  loveliness.  To  the  un-illuminati  of  the 
time  her  face  was  illegible,  her  grace  mere 


NOWADAYS  13 

motion.  She  was  often  thought  "  plain  " 
by  those  who  "seeing,  could  not  see." 
The  subtle  charm,  the  quick  look  of  sud 
den  and  complete  apprehension,  the  man 
ner  woven  in  finest  tissue,  its  warp  of 
natural  tendencies,  its  woof  spun  from  the 
world's  best  experiences— these  in  her  were 
as  nothing  to  most,  but  Santvoord  had  rec 
ognized  her  at  once  for  what  she  was,  an 
heiress  "of  all  the  ages,"  and  in  full  pos 
session  of  her  freehold.  She  was  as  thor 
oughly  a  creature  of  the  day  as  he  was 
himself,  and  he  knew  it.  She  announced 
that  she  was  modern,  and  she  rejoiced 
in  it. 

When  Santvoord  for  the  first  time  met 
her  and  took  her  in  to  dinner,  she  had  al 
lowed  him  to  ask  questions,  while  she  only 
gave  answers — the  safer  opening,  a  sort  of 
queen's  gambit  in  the  game,  all  things  con 
sidered  ;  but  as  she  rose  she  turned  swiftly 
upon  him,  and  without  prelude  or  provoca 
tion  said,  simply, 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  and  see  me." 

And  now  they  were  engaged. 

It  had  been  "  announced  "  for  some  time, 


14  NOWADAYS 

and  had  received  society's  fullest  approval ; 
for  was  he  not  one  whose  position  was  un 
exceptionable  and  whose  prospects  were 
excellent  ? 

Loss,  failure,  ruin,  might  very  well  mean 
the  annulment  of  their  betrothal ;  for  Sant- 
voord,  if  he  indulged  in  illusions  about 
anything,  certainly  entertained  none  about 
himself.  He  had  never  looked  upon  the 
engagement  in  any  other  than  a  very  practi 
cal  way.  He  never  thought  that  Madeleine 
cared  for  him  with  any  of  the  absorbing,  un 
reasoning  fervor  of  the  lovelorn  maiden  of 
unmitigated  romance.  She  had  too  many  in 
terests  in  her  busy  life  to  make  that  possible. 
She  was  no  simple  Marguerite,  who  might 
make  answer  that  she  had  "  time  enough  " 
to  think  of  him  ;  indeed,  he  doubted  if  she 
lost  any  time  in  such  weak  and  unbecoming 
way.  She  was  a  very  modern  young  person, 
living  in  a  time  when  everything  has  suf 
fered  extension  but  the  twenty-four  hours, 
when  there  is  twice  as  much  of  everything 
except  the  time  in  which  everything  must 
be  done,  and  she  could  hardly  be  expected 
to  waste  in  sentiment  what  should  be  em- 


NOWADAYS  15 

ployed  upon  society.  So  Santvoord  had 
thought  in  the  enforced  rapidity  even  of 
thought  nowadays,  but  he  really  had  no 
more  attempted  to  comprehend  the  exact 
state  of  her  feeling  as  to  him  than  he  had 
to  analyze  his  for  her.  Facts  are  the  things 
— nowadays  —  and  it  was  a  fact  that  they 
were  engaged.  Would  any  reasonable  per 
son  think  of  going  beyond  that — of  dragging 
in  wholly  unnecessary  considerations  in  the 
way  of  feelings  and  fancies  when  there  was 
the  undisputed  fact  itself  ?  Certainly  not — 
nowadays.  Why  was  she  really  marrying 
him  ?  In  the  rare  and  brief  interviews  their 
busy  lives  permitted  they  had  talked  but  lit 
tle  of  what  might  be  called  sentimentality. 
There  was  so  much  of  substance  in  their 
daily  existence,  so  much  of  actual  and  vivid 
interest  ready  at  hand  for  their  discussion, 
that  they  had  usually  parted  in  a  hurried, 
surprised  fashion,  allowing  little  time  for  any 
expression  of  emotional  superfluities.  It  al 
most  seemed  as  if  they  were  astonished  to 
find  themselves  in  any  such  position,  and  as 
if  it  made  them,  what  neither  had  ever  been 
before,  a  little  shy  and  awkward. 


1 6  NOWADAYS 

As  he  looked  back  upon  it  now,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  had  been,  after  all,  an  un 
satisfying  poverty  in  their  relations,  a  "  thin 
ness,"  a  lack  of  "  tone,"  something  wanting. 
He  glanced  out  of  the  window  impatiently, 
as  one  looks  quickly  around  when  thought 
annoys.  How  the  signs  of  the  shops  and 
offices  were  crowded  on  the  walls !  He  felt 
that  it  would  have  been  better  if  he,  if  she, 
had  not  taken  everything  so  much  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  And  then  he  stared  along  the 
car.  But  could  it  have  been  helped  ?  What 
else  would  have  been  possible — nowadays  ? 
In  a  week  or  less  it  all  probably  would  be 
ended,  and  so  what  did  it  matter  ?  She  had 
undoubtedly  said  "  yes  "  so  promptly  when 
he  had  so  abruptly  asked  the  question  over 
which  so  many  coyly,  doubtfully  hesitate, 
for  the  reason  that  he  was  so  plainly  "  suit 
able  "  ;  but  now  should  his  suitableness  be 
ended  there  would  be  no  reason  why  the  af 
fair  should  go  on.  Strange  that  what  had 
been  hitherto  satisfactory  should  suddenly 
appear  so  incomplete  !  Perhaps  she  had 
only  consented  to  marry  him  because  her 
father  had  wished  her  to  do  so,  for  that  such 


NOWADAYS  17 

was  the  paternal  desire  had  been  very  clear 
to  Santvoord  from  the  first.  Old  Verschoyle, 
as  every  one  knew,  was  "  temporarily  em 
barrassed."  But  there  had  never  been  a 
time  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  diner- 
out  when  Verschoyle  had  not  been  "  tem 
porarily  embarrassed  " —  in  such  embarrass 
ment,  however,  as  did  not  interfere  with  his 
consumption  of  viand  or  vintage,  with  his 
country  house  or  his  city  house,  his  mem 
bership  of  the  best  clubs,  or  even  the  main 
tenance  of  a  very  creditable  racing -stable. 
His  was  one  of  those  remarkable  existences 
in  which  ways  and  means  seem  wholly  in 
commensurate  with  conditions  and  results, 
one  of  those  who  nowadays  appear  to  pos 
sess  some  substitute  for  that  old  horn  of 
plenty  which  its  owner  could  fill  at  will  with 
whatever  he  desired.  But  everybody  knew 
that  with  Verschoyle's  death  there  would 
come  an  end  of  all  these  good  things 

o  o 

And  none  understood  better  than  the  old 
man  himself  how  fearfully  near  that  formi 
dable  end  always  was.  What  was  to  become 
of  Madeleine  ?  She  had  various  aunts,  es 
timable  maiden  ladies,  living  in  a  small 


IS  NOWADAYS 

Georgian   town,  but  would   it   be   possible 
for  this  radiant  creature  to  lead  other  than 
the  modish  life  to  which   she  had  always 
been  accustomed  ?     Verschoyle  would  cer 
tainly  have  thought  it  no  more  possible  for 
her  to  so  change  existence  than  for  himself ; 
and  what,  concluded  Santvoord,  as  the  train 
swung  around  a  sharp  corner  and  almost 
seemed  to  graze  the  crumbling  edge  of  the 
blackened  building,  could  be  more  natural 
than  the  arrangement  of  the  match  by  this 
highly  presentable  sinner,  this  upper-world 
ling  of  threescore  —  of  the  marriage  of  his 
only  child  to  his  "  dear  young  friend  Sant 
voord,"  who  could  now  and  then  so  easily 
let  him   into   a  "  good   thing,"  and  whose 
methods  were  so  thoroughly  the  masculine 
complement  of  his  daughter's  modes  ?    And 
so,  he  thought,  his  fortune  and  his  lady-love 
might  be  taken  from  him  together.     Some 
Sir   Marmaduke,  riding  away  on   a  "  milk- 
white  steed,"  and  bidding  farewell  at  once 
to  his  ancestral  acres  and  a  somewhat  lach 
rymose  Lady  Alice,  might  excite  interest  if 
not  respect ;  but  Philip  Santvoord  hurrying 
downtown    on    the     "  elevated,"    uncertain 


NOWADAYS  19 

whether  he  may  not  lose  a  fortune  sufficient 
to  have  reinstated  any  Sir  Marmaduke  and 
have  bought  out  the  adjoining  estate  of  Lady 
Alice's  noble  father,  doubtful  whether  Mad 
eleine  Verschoyle  would  be  constant  to  him, 
is  really  a  very  matter-of-fact  figure.  But 
such  is  the  unfairness  of  fate,  such  the  lot 
of  those  who  live  nowadays,  when  even  ro 
mance,  as  Halleck  sings,  is  not  what  it  was. 

"  Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennons  gay 

Of  young  Romance; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 
And  broken  lance. 

"  'Tis  a  new  world — no  more  to  maid, 
Warrior,  or  bard  is  homage  paid; 
The  bay-tree's,  laurel's,  myrtle's  shade 

Men's  thoughts  resign ; 
Heaven  placed  us  here  to  vote  and  trade, 
Twin  tasks  divine  '" 

"  Rector  !"  shouted  the  conductor. 

As  Santvoord  hurried  up  Broadway  to 
the  "  Street  " — so  great  that,  like  the  king 
of  France,  it  requires  no  title — the  drays, 
the  carts,  the  lighter  business  wagons,  the 
stages,  rumbled,  rattled,  toiled,  or  dashed 
over  the  pavement  as  usual ;  the  crowd  on 


20  NOWADAYS 

the  sidewalk  was  no  denser,  no  more  hur 
ried,  than  on  other  mornings.  Broadway, 
that  avenue  that  leads  to  a  continent,  was 
unchanged  and,  as  always,  ugly,  bristling, 
inspiriting.  But  the  scant  street  itself  — 
highway  to  success,  thoroughfare  to  failure 
— wore  an  uncommon  aspect.  Messenger- 
boys  run  in  and  out,  through  agitated  hun 
dreds  -,  clerks  with  anxious,  almost  fright 
ened  look  hasten  up  and  down  and  across 
the  narrow  way ;  the  continuous  clatter  of 
telegraph  instruments,  as  the  rattle  of  in 
fantry  fire  in  the  contest  after  the  skirmish- 
line  has  been  driven  in,  can  almost  be  heard 
on  the  sidewalk.  Men  can  hardly  avoid  col 
lision  in  their  haste.  Some  meet,  stop,  and, 
while  speaking  with  one  another,  are  pushed 
apart  by  hurrying  numbers,  or  are  driven 
to  the  gutter,  where  a  broken  sentence  is 
finished,  or  perhaps,  in  subdued  whispers, 
some  eager  question  put.  The  great  de 
sire  is  for  information  ;  knowledge  of  any 
thing,  everything,  that  can  in  the  remotest 
way  indicate  how  things  are  going  ;  even 
the  drifting  straws  of  gossip  that  can  show 
how  the  wind  —  that  may  be  a  squall,  that 


NOWADAYS  21 

may  be  a  tornado — is  blowing  are  eagerly 
caught  up,  and  minute  by  minute  from  all 
over  the  world  pour  in  "  cables  "  giving 
orders,  asking  questions,  bearing  advice, 
admonition,  injunction ;  offering  support, 
withdrawing  aid  ;  carrying  hope,  creating 
despair.  News  from  Threadneedle  Street, 
reports  from  the  Bourse,  the  funds  falling, 
rentes  going  down.  There  is  excitement  the 
world  over  ;  in  dark  Hamburg  counting- 
rooms,  in  hot  Calcutta  banks,  the  effects 
of  the  financial  shock  have  been  felt,  and 
everywhere  the  outcome  of  this  day  is  await 
ed  anxiously,  for  nowadays  the  peoples  of 
the  earth  are  bound  together  by  golden  ties, 
and  what  ambition,  faith,  fanaticism,  or  the 
theories  of  men  have  failed  to  accomplish, 
the  need  or  greed  of  gain  has  done,  and  the 
world  is  now  really  united  in  the  great  Fed 
eration  of  Trade.  With  the  opening  of  the 
Exchange  more  would  be  known;  the  test 
of  actual  transaction  might  prove  much. 
As  the  time  approaches,  the  steps  of  the 
building  are  crowded,  the  street  in  front 
almost  blocked.  Along  the  sidewalk,  up 
and  down,  are  looser  clusters  and  groups 


22  NOWADAYS 

of  excited  men.  It  is  a  strange  gathering. 
Only  nowadays  can  its  like  be  seen  ;  so 
many  so  moved  by  such  really  sordid  mo 
tives,  uninfluenced  for  one  instant  by  the 
slightest  consideration  of  the  general  weal 
or  woe  ;  a  struggling,  agitated  mass,  each 
stirred  only  by  his  own  self  -  interest ;  a 
throng  without  the  significance  evident  and 
felt  when  thousands  pulsate  to  the  beat  of 
some  single  thought,  some  dominant  idea, 
when  assemblages  of  men  have  the  impres- 
siveness  of  Niagara.  It  is  little  if  anything 
more  than  a  well-dressed  rabble.  But  what 
matter  ?  A  crusade  never  created  anything, 
it  only  destroyed.  Philanthropy  never  built 
a  city  or  a  railroad.  It  is  "business"  that 
does  the  business,  and  "  business "  is  the 
business  nowadays. 

Perplexing,  bewildering  nowadays  ! 

As  Santvoord  sits  at  his  table  in  his 
rooms  in  the  Universal  Trust  Building  the 
noises  from  without  can  only  be  heard  as  a 
distant  murmur.  While  he  tears  open  de 
spatches  and  glances  at  letters,  he  loses  for 
the  moment  acute  consciousness  of  what  at 
least  is  a  crisis  important  to  him. 


NOWADAYS  23 

And  now  the  hour  of  opening  had  come 
and  passed.  Every  one  is  selling,  selling, 
madly,  wildly,  and  prices  are  going  down. 
If  this  continues  all  is  lost,  and  panic,  and 
all  that  panic  entails,  must  follow.  Men  set 
their  teeth  and  wait,  uncertain  what  the  next 
minute  may  bring ;  while  all  of  them  pray 
for  the  hour  when  strife  must  cease,  and 
there  may  be  chance  to  count  the  loss  or 
gain.  A  point  is  touched  below  any  the 
most  imbittered  "  bear  "  had  imagined  pos 
sible,  and  consternation  drives  all  in  rout 
before  it.  Margins  that  were  thought  more 
than  ample  have  been  swallowed  up,  and  a 
second  line  of  defence  has  in  many  cases 
been  lost.  Philip  feels  that  all  is  over. 
The  last  call  has  strained  every  resource, 
and  the  next  will  find  him  helpless.  There 
is  nothing  further  he  can  do.  Matters  have 
passed  beyond  his  control;  only  a  sudden 
rise  can  save  him.  He  feels  that  it  would 
be  a  relief  to  lock  the  door,  let  the  storm 
rage,  and  not  receive  news  of  its  progress 
until  all  was  over  and  decided. 

In  a  large  breakfast-room  in  an  uptown 


24  NOWADAYS 

house  a  young  girl  sat  facing  an  old  man. 
Although  different  in  age,  in  the  face  of  each 
was  the  same  expression  of  indefinite  dissat 
isfaction,  of  very  definite  restlessness — the 
lines  with  which  the  present  makes  its  sign- 
manual  upon  its  own. 

The  old  man  threw  down  the  paper  at 
which  he  had  just  glanced  ;  it  fell  upon 
others  that  he  had  already  cast  aside. 

"It  looks  ominous,"  he  said,  "but  it 
may  be  only  a  scare,  a  flurry,  after  all." 

"  Why  should  we  distress  ourselves  ?" 
asked  the  girl,  carelessly.  "  What  have  we 
to  do  with  the  stock-market  ?" 

"No  one,"  answered  Verschoyle,  "is  so 
high  or  so  low  that  he  can  affect  to  disre 
gard  what  happens  there — not  nowadays." 

"  Nowadays  !"  half  exclaimed  Madeleine, 
contemptuously.  "  Your  fetich." 

"Yes,  nowadays,"  interrupted  Verschoyle  ; 
"  and  no  one  worships  the  fetich  more  de 
voutly  than  yourself.  Don't  you  boast  that 
you  live  only  in  the  present,  with  the  pres 
ent,  and  for  the  present  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  made  it  a  boast," 
said  the  girl,  quietly. 


NOWADAYS  25 

"  But  you  have  said  it,"  he  replied,  rather 
petulantly;  "and  it  is  a  good  thing  that 
you  have  felt  it.  If  you  had  been  other 
than  you  are,  I  would  not  have  felt  so  se 
cure  about  you.  You  know  my  position." 

"We  have  always  been  in  a  'position,'" 
said  the  girl.  "  I  suppose  we  shall  find 
enough  to  eat.  Pretty  much  every  one 
does." 

"  Eat !"  exclaimed  Verschoyle,  impatient 
ly.  "  Eat !  There  are  appetites  sharper 
than  hunger  nowadays  ;  needs,  necessaries 
of  life,  more  to  such  as  you  and  I  than  food 
and  drink.  Eat !  As  if  luxuries  were  not 
your  necessities!  You — one  of  the  most 
artificial  creatures  that  ever  existed  —  a 
young  woman  of  to-day  !" 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am  ?"  said  the  girl. 

"  You  ?  You'd  die  from  want  if  you 
couldn't  have  what  wealth  gives.  That  is 
the  reason  why  I  was  in  favor  of  this  en 
gagement  with  young  Santvoord.  It  had  to 
be.  Noblesse  oblige.  A  weak  motto.  We've 
a  better,  truer,  stronger:  The  times  compel. 
I've  always  lived  up  to  it  and  lived  by  it, 
and  so  have  you  and  Santvoord.  Every- 


26  NOWADAYS 

body  said  he  was  rich  -,  not  so  rich  as  some, 
but  rich  enough  to  keep  you  from  what 
would  be  destitution  to  you.  I  thought  it 
was  for  the  best ,  but  now — 

"  Now  ?"  said  Madeleine,  quickly  looking 
up.  "  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Mean  ?"  said  the  old  man,  fretfully.  "  I 
mean  that  he  would  not  let  well  enough 
alone  ,  that,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  he  has 
been  trying  it  on  in  stocks,  and  is  likely  to 
be  hard  hit,  even  if  he  does  not  lose  all  he 
has.  I  heard  all  about  it  at  the  club  last 
night,  and  if  there  is  a  panic  to-day — 

The  girl  did  not  notice  that  her  father 
had  not  finished  the  sentence.  She  sat  gaz 
ing  intently,  vacantly,  out  of  the  window. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?"  asked  Ver- 
schoyle. 

"  Is  there  anything  for  me  to  say  ?" 

"  You  cannot  marry  a  poor  man." 

Madeleine  did  not  speak. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  such  as  you — nowa 
days,"  said  the  father. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  me  ?"  demand 
ed  the  daughter,  quickly. 

"  Enough  to  know  that,"  he  answered,  in 
slight  astonishment.  "  \Vhat  do  you  mean  ?" 


NOWADAYS  27 

"  I  mean,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  have  learned 
a  great  deal  in  the  last  few  weeks.  You 
have  been  too  much  occupied  to  know 
much  about  me.  We  are  all  too  much  oc 
cupied  to  know  much  about  each  other." 

"  Slightly  heroic  in  manner,"  he  remon 
strated,  "  and  altogether  out  of  place." 

"  Nowadays,"  she  added,  rather  scorn 
fully.  "  But  I  am  not  heroic  or  melodra 
matic." 

"You  are  very  strange  this  morning." 

"  I  am  not.  I  am  myself.  I  can  easily 
understand  that  I  may  seem  strange  to  you. 
Absolutely  you  know  nothing  about  me. 
You  cannot  say  what  I  would  or  what  I 
would  not  do." 

"  Would  you  marry  Philip  Santvoord  with 
out  a  penny  ?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  If  you  would,"  he  said,  "  I  would  not 
consent  to  it.  I  know  too  well  the  trouble, 
the  misery  that  would  follow." 

She  was  still  silent. 

"  You,"  he  continued — "  none  of  us,  can 
change  a  nature.  You  have  the  hunger 
of  to-day  for  all  that  to-day  can  give,  and 


28  NOWADAYS 

without  wealth  that  hunger  cannot  be  ap 
peased." 

"  Philip,"  she  suddenly  asked,  "  is  in 
trouble  ?" 

"  Unquestionably." 

"  He  has  not  told  me  that  he  feared 
trouble." 

"  Would  such  a  one  as  he  be  apt  to  do  so 
— nowadays  ?"  sneered  the  old  man. 

The  girl  arose  as  if  to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  are  going  out  ?"  asked  the  father. 

"Yes." 

"True,  I  had  forgotten.  You  must  see 
Mrs.  Thirleston  to-day.  Her  dinners  begin 
in  a  fortnight.  As  you  have  said,  it  is  im 
portant  that  you  should  be  at  the  first;  es 
pecially  if  His  Royal  Highness  is  there,  as 
he  surely  will  be  if  he  comes  to  this  country. 
Give  her  my  profoundest  regards  if  you  see 
her." 

"  I  will,"  said  Madeleine,  "  if  I  see  her." 

"  I  was  to  give  this  to  you,  and  to  no  one 
else,"  said  a  servant  evidently  belonging  to 
a  "  smart "  establishment,  as  he  held  out  a 
note  to  Santvoord. 


NOWADAYS  2g 

With  the  first  touch  of  nervousness  that 
he  had  shown,  Santvoord  tore  open  the  en 
velope  and  read  the  few  hurried  words  writ 
ten  upon  the  enclosed  card  almost  at  a 
glance. 

"  I  am  in  the  brougham  in  the  street.  If  it  is  pos 
sible  for  you  to  get  away  follow  William,  who  will 
bring  you  where  I  am.  I  want  to  see  you  as  soon 
as  I  can,  please.  M." 

Madeleine  wished  to  see  him,  and  at 
once.  Why  not  do  as  she  asked  ?  Per 
haps  it  would  be  better  that  he  should,  let 
what  would  come.  He  could  accomplish 
little  by  remaining  ;  things  had  passed  be 
yond  his  control. 

Again  in  the  street.  The  tumult  is  una 
bated  ;  it  is  even  intensified.  Where  such 
interests  contend,  where  such  a  tremendous 
game  is  being  played,  no  man,  not  even  a 
mere  spectator,  can  stand  near  and  not 
catch  something  of  the  excitement  of  the 
hour.  The  sidewalks  are  more  crowded 
than  before.  Human  beings,  too  absorbed 
to  feel  their  existence,  flow  in  currents  and 


30  NOWADAYS 

counter-currents,  or  eddy  around  some  cen 
tral  point  where  some  one  of  their  kind  pro 
claims  something — anything. 

Money  and  time.  Here  a  group  with 
faces  set  in  rigid  lines  stands  silent,  expect 
ant,  uncertain  what  the  next  minute  may 
bring.  Time  and  money !  A  moment,  an 
hour,  hundreds  or  thousands  or  millions,  as 
may  befit  the  particular  needs. 

Santvoord  and  the  footman,  with  many  a 
sturdy  push,  struggle  through  the  throng 
and  gain  the  quiet  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
street.  But  the  man  does  not  stop  here. 
Pausing  for  a  moment  on  the  curbstone  at 
Broadway,  he  awaits  a  chance  to  make  his 
way  through  the  flood  of  vehicles  that  strug 
gle  and  crush  along  the  pavement,  and  then, 
followed  closely  by  Santvoord,  hurries  quick 
ly  across. 

In  front  of  the  great,  grim  church  that 
stands  with  fixed  gaze  looking  down  Wall 
Street,  threatening  and  admonitory — in 
front  of  that  church  that  stands  as  Savona 
rola  might  have  stood,  pausing  before  dec 
lamation  against  the  luxury  and  greed  of 
an  older  capital,  Santvoord  saw  drawn  up 


NOWADAYS  31 

to  the  sidewalk  an  accurately  equipped 
brougham  which  he  recognized  as  the  Ver- 
schoyle  carriage. 

Just  beyond  the  high  iron  fence,  within 
the  church -yard,  was  Madeleine  herself. 
Without  speaking,  he  walked  with  her  down 
one  of  the  gravel-paths  that  run  among  the 
sallow  grave-stones. 

"  Do  you  think  that  what  I  have  done  is 
strange  ?"  she  asked,  when  the  din  of  the 
street  was  slightly  diminished  by  the  dis 
tance. 

"  Yes — no,"  answered  Santvoord,  hesitat 
ingly. 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Madeleine.  "  It  cer 
tainly  is  the  last  thing  in  the  world  that  I 
should  have  thought  I  would  do." 

Philip  did  not  speak. 

"I  heard  that  you  were  in  trouble,"  she 
continued,  "  and  I  came." 

He  glanced  at  her  in  quick  surprise. 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  be  surprised," 
she  went  on  ;  "I  am  surprised  myself.  It 
is  not  what  I  should  think  any  one  of  us 
would  do — nowadays." 

Nowadays. 


32  NOWADAYS 

He  knew  that  in  the  great  room  of  the 
not-distant  building  men  were  already  shout 
ing  in  contest,  in  conflict  strenuous  almost 
as  actual  warfare.  He  knew  that  on  that 
field  men  animated  only  by  the  one  passion 
for  gain,  with  firm,  set  mouths  and  rigid 
brows,  were  struggling  in  such  absorbing 
intensity  of  strife  that  consciousness  of  time, 
space,  life,  of  everything  but  gain,  gain,  was 
lost.  And  all  this  hardly  more  than  a  block 
away,  while  here,  as  a  child's  fingers  might 
part  and  play  with  the  gray  hair  of  age,  the 
wind  shook  and  dallied  with  the  sere  grass 
es  of  autumn  growing  limply  around  the 
gravestones,  and  the  mild  sunlight  fell 
through  the  thinning  leaves  of  the  trees  as 
if  in  smiling  benediction  upon  those  who 
knew  no  contention  in  their  rest.  No 
graveyard  upon  a  country  hill -side  was 
more  peaceful. 

Confused,  conflicting  nowadays. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  was  sorry," 
continued  Madeleine.  "  We  have  never,  I 
think,  known  each  other  very  well,  and  I 
thought  that  you  might  not  know  " — and 
she,  the  girl  whom  hitherto  no  embarrass- 


NOWADAYS  33 

ment  could  discomfit,  no  surprise  startle, 
hesitated — "  that  I  was  sorry." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Philip,  simply.  "  Then 
you  really  care  ?" 

"  Why,  do  you  not  know — now  ?"  and  she 
looked  quickly  up. 

"  I  did  not  know.  How  could  I  ?"  he  an 
swered.  "  I  will  know  now.  I  could  not 
bear  to  doubt  it.  And,  Madeleine — " 

"  I  think,"  she  interrupted,  "  that  I  have 
wanted  to  tell  you  a  long  time  that  I 
cared ;"  and  as  she  turned  quickly  away 
she  did  not  see  the  light  of  gladness  that 
shone  in  his  eyes. 

"And,"  he  said,  "even  if  everything  else 
went,  there  would  still  be — " 

"  Everything,  I  hope,"  she  interrupted 
again,  and  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  he 
seized  and  held  in  both  his. 

"  Madeleine,"  he  almost  whispered. 

"I  think,"  she  said  —  it  was  a  strange 
waywardness,  for  she  would  not  let  him 
speak  now — "  that  we  have  been  living  in 
some  strange  mistake.  We  all  do  nowadays. 
And  we — like  every  one  else — we  have  tak 
en  too  much  for  granted.  We  allowed  other 
3 


34  NOWADAYS 

thoughts,  other  interests  —  miserable  little 
transient  things — to  drive  out  the  great  real 
ones.  We  acted" — and  she  laughed  gayly 
— "  as  if  we  were  afraid  that '  caring '  would 
be  a  bore  to  us.  We  shirked  what  was  se 
rious  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  troublesome, 
as  we  all  do  nowadays.  It  needed  some 
thing  big  to  show  us  ourselves  —  our  real 
true  selves." 

They  had  just  made  the  circuit  of  the 
graveyard,  and  now  stood  before  the  church 
door,  the  massive  tower  rising  high  above 
them. 

"  But,  Madeleine—" 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  she  said,  quickly. 

There  was  hardly  any  one  in  the  church. 
The  roar  of  the  outside  world  came  to  them 
now  as  only  a  deep,  soothing  murmur.  Sant- 
voord  at  first  hardly  realized  where  he  was. 
Then  the  softened  light,  the  gentle  stillness, 
the  hallowed  influences  of  the  place,  the  only 
half-felt  consciousness  of  the  amazing  rapt 
ure  which  was  so  deep  that  it  even  now  had 
a  touch  of  fear — all  these  humbled  him  into 
wondering  thankfulness,  thrilled  him  with 
strange  elation. 


NOWADAYS  35 

She  let  him  take  her  hand  again  as  they 
sat  side  by  side  in  the  nearest  pew. 

"  We  will  make  no  more  mistakes,"  he 
said. 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  sank  to  her  knees 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

And  all  this  is  possible,  for  is  it  not — 
nowadays  ? 

Nowadays. 


THERE'S  NOTHING   HALF  SO 
SWEET   IN   LIFE" 


"  THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  SO  SWEET 
IN   LIFE" 

The  building  could  hardly  be  said  to  be 
specialized  by  anything  except  excessive 
newness,  although  it  might  be  readily  de 
scribed  generically  as  one  of  the  very  fin 
est  specimens  of  the  severest  type  of  Neo- 
American  municipal  architecture  on  the 
continent.  The  most  malignant  political 
opponent  of  the  party  in  power  shrank 
abashed  by  its  austerity,  angularity,  and 
general  air  of  being  for  what  it  was  in 
tended  and  for  nothing  else,  from  proffer 
ing  any  charge  of  jobbery.  It  stood  in 
and  of  itself  an  apparently  perfect  refuta 
tion  of  any  such  suspicion.  All  over  it 
told  of  retrenchment  and  reform — in  its 
trim,  clean  brick-work ;  in  its  scant  stone 
trimmings,  placed,  it  would  seem,  rather  for 
the  purpose  of  reminding  the  beholder  that 


40  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

costly  and  useless  ornament  had  been  rigor 
ously  excluded  than  for  any  adorning  qual 
ity  of  their  own  ;  in  every  fold  of  the  great 
zinc  cornice,  rising  high  above  the  actual 
roof  and  protruding  far  over  the  street  — 
everywhere  it  bore  indications  that  the  most 
direct  attainment  of  the  end  in  view  had 
been  sought,  not  at  any  price  by  any  means, 
but  rather  at  the  smallest  price  for  which 
any  one  had  been  found  willing  to  contract. 
The  weather,  too,  might  have  seemed  to 
the  wildly  imaginative  something  contracted 
for  by  the  city's  government — something, 
however,  that  had  not  been  so  successful  a 
bargain  as  the  building — for  it  was  a  miser 
ably  poor  affair,  a  mere  "  scamped  job."  It 
ran  through  all  the  changes  from  rain  to 
hail  and  sleet  to  snow  and  back  again  ;  it 
melted ;  it  froze ;  it  exhausted  its  whole 
repertory,  and  through  all  variations  the 
wind  now  whistled,  now  howled,  a  dismal 
accompaniment.  St.  Patrick  —  a  pleasant 
immortality  to  him  —  must,  in  addition  to 
his  other  estimable  qualities,  have  been  a 
saint  of  singular  unselfishness  and  self-ab 
negation,  for  certainly  only  a  being  without 


" THERE S    NOTHING    HALF    SO   SWEET       41 

a  particle  of  the  self-seeking  spirit  would 
have  consented  to  take  the  lyth  of  March 
— generally  about  the  most  unpleasant  day 
in  the  year — for  his  own.  With  true  Irish 
carelessness  he  must  have  accepted  what 
none  other  in  the  calendar  could  be  brought 
to  consider.  It  was  a  perfect  St.  Patrick's 
day — in  the  evening,  and  the  landscape — 
the  moon,  having  risen  as  the  hours  ad 
vanced,  shone  dimly  through  the  thin  clouds 
— resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  poor 
wash-drawing  in  some  black  pigment ;  the 
street-lamps  and  glowing  windows  appear 
ing  like  pin  punctures  in  the  paper  through 
which  the  light  struck  brightly.  Out  of 
doors  it  was  rawly  cold,  but  in  the  great 
bare  room  in  the  particular  building  already 
mentioned,  up  the  broad,  easy  steps,  and 
beyond  the  double  doors,  the  huge  stove 
seemed  fairly  to  quiver  in  its  circumambient 
heat,  to  tremble  in  such  ripples  about  its 
ornamented  crest  that  you  might  have  been 
justified  in  forgetting  that  it  was  a  solid 
thing  at  all,  and  easily  pardonable  in  im 
agining  that  it  was  impalpable — it  looked 
so  like  such  a  monster  as  some  ironmonger 


42  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

who  had  dined  too  heavily  might  be  likely 
to  encounter  in  a  nightmare.  The  high,  bar 
ren  room  was  not  unpleasing,  though  hardly 
inviting,  being  one  degree  less  unattractive 
than  the  waiting-room  of  some  large  railway- 
station,  which,  indeed,  with  its  long,  wooden 
seats  and  inrailed  office,  it  somewhat  re 
sembled.  It  had  but  two  occupants.  Well 
within  the  immediate  and  torrid  neighbor 
hood  of  the  stove — the  untutored  savage 
would  have  imagined  it  the  presiding  deity 
of  the  place  and  instantly  prostrated  him 
self  before  the  inrailed  idol  —  sat  a  man 
tipped  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  and  his  feet  on 
the  shining  brass  barrier  that  was  intended 
to  prevent  the  incautious  from  burning  them 
selves.  Another,  younger  and  evidently  of 
less  consideration,  stood  at  a  high  desk 
writing  vigorously. 

"  Wouldn't  ha'  had  such  a  quiet  day  if 
'twant  such  a  bad  one,"  said  the  man  at  the 
stove,  as  a  stronger  gust  of  wind  than  usual 
surged  against  the  pane. 

His  companion  nodded  acquiescently  and 
turned  to  what  looked  like  the  ordinary 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  43 

ledger  of  the  ordinary  clerk.  But  if  you 
had  glanced  over  his  shoulder  you  would 
have  been  a  little  surprised  if  you  had  only 
expected  to  behold  the  commonplace  en 
tries  of  ordinary  mercantile  transactions, 
for  the  building  was  known  as  Station- 
House  Number  i  of  that  Precinct,  and 
the  book  open  on  the  desk  was  the  "  blot 
ter"  bearing  enumeration  of  malefactions 
and  crimes  blacker  than  the  ink  that  in 
harsh,  dry  phrase  recorded  them.  On 
these  pages  were  kept  an  account  of  man's 
debit  with  evil,  and  on  each  leaf  appeared 
an  entry  of  a  life's  bankruptcy.  With  the 
pitiless,  business-like  brevity  of  an  invoice, 
men,  women,  and  children  were  described 
and  despatched — whither  ?  It  seemed  as  if 
in  that  devil's  day-book  no  form  of  man's 
baseness  lacked  mention  ;  as  if  humanity 
at  no  stage  of  its  downfall  lacked  unworthy 
representation,  for  from  the  vagrant  woman- 
child  to  the  drunken  beldam,  from  the 
thieving  boy  to  the  murderous  madman — 
all  were  there. 

The  decent,  trim,  regulated  aspect  of  the 
place  affected  you  almost  with  a  sense  of 


44  " THERE s  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET 

uncomfortable  unnaturalness  when  you  knew 
where  you  really  were,  admirable  though  it 
might  be  in  itself  and  pleasing  in  any  other 
connection.  What  in  a  hospital  would  have 
unqualifiedly  won  your  praise,  here  seemed 
incongruous.  There  was  a  cold-blooded, 
matter-of-fact  acceptance  of  evil  conditions, 
and  a  practical,  painstaking  preparedness 
for  it  that  was  almost  repulsive.  It  did  not 
seem,  despite  the  humanitarian,  that  those 
walls  intended  to  restrain  the  assassin  and 
the  robber  should  be  finished  with  the  spot 
less  plaster  and  the  unstained  wainscot  of  a 
museum  ;  that  these  floors,  across  which  re 
luctant  criminals  had  been  dragged,  should 
be  swept  and  tended  like  those  of  a  public 
library. 

The  man  by  the  stove  —  he  was  in  the 
undress  uniform  of  his  shirt  -  sleeves  — 
stretched  his  strong  arms  and  expanded 
to  the  full  his  capacious  chest.  He  did 
not  look  a  particularly  sympathetic  person  ; 
his  experiences  could  hardly  have  been 
such  as  to  render  him  particularly  suscep 
tible  to  pity,  though  his  face  was  not  bad, 
only  somewhat  coarse  and  heavy.  He 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  45 

was  evidently  about  to  address  another 
remark  to  his  companion,  when  one  of  the 
doors  of  the  main  entrance  opened  slowly. 
A  round  head  from  which  the  hat  had 
been  removed,  covered  with  tight -curling 
black  hair,  was  thrust  cautiously  in,  and 
the  bright  black  eyes  in  the  fresh,  good- 
humored,  boyish  face  glanced  quickly  about 
the  room. 

"  Be  the  rules  sthricht,"  said  the  new 
arrival  with  a  strong  Irish  accent,  "agin 
comin'  in  ?" 

He  had  addressed  the  man  at  the  desk, 
but  receiving  no  answer  he  apparently 
took  silence  for  consent,  if  not  invitation, 
and  pushing  the  door  a  little  open,  he  ad 
vanced  confidently  a  step  further,  still  re 
taining,  however,  his  hold  upon  the  big 
bronze  door-knob.  He  was  a  young  fellow 
of  about  twenty-two  or  -three,  with  that 
peculiar  look  of  intrepid  alertness  that  a 
young  Irishman  more  than  any  one  else 
possesses,  the  fact  that  he  was  an  Irish 
man  being  discoverable  at  a  glance.  The 
perfection  of  his  physical  condition  was 
clearly  shown  by  his  firm  skin,  now  red- 


46  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

dened  by  the  wind  and  rain.  Though  he 
was  rather  under  the  medium  height,  it 
was  evident  that  his  well-formed  limbs 
were  vigorous  and  sinewy.  His  legs  were 
covered  with  tight  corduroy,  worn  and 
shiny,  and  around  his  throat  was  loosely 
knotted  a  bright  -  colored  handkerchief. 
Nowise  abashed  by  the  forbidding  morose- 
ness  of  the  two  occupants  of  the  place, 
he  again  looked  easily  around,  and  then 
glanced  for  an  instant  out  of  the  still  open 
door. 

"  The  invitation's  not  as  pressin'  as  some 
ye  give,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  not  stand  on 
ceremony  with  ye,  an'  just  step  in." 

"  What  d'  you  want  here  ?"  asked  the 
man  at  the  desk,  seeing  that  the  other  dis 
dained  to  speak. 

"  What  would  a  man  be  wantin'  here  ? 
Yer  company,  d'  ye  think  ?" 

"  Ye'll  get  nothin'  else,  an'  too  much  of 
that  if  ye  don't  clear  out,"  answered  the 
other,  who  was  evidently  a  compatriot,  but 
one  of  longer  residence  in  America. 

"Ain't  this  the  station-house?"  asked  the 
young  fellow  aggrievedly. 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  47 

"  Ye'll  find  out  that  it  is." 

"  Thin  I'd  loike  to  know  av  it's  not  here 
that  a  gintleman  that's  timporarily  out  o' 
imployment  and  consequintly  not  possessin' 
the  wealth  av  a  railway  Crasus  can  find  ac 
commodation  for  the  night." 

For  all  response,  the  man  addressed 
jerked  his  chin  out  sharply. 

"  It's  here  I've  been  given  to  understand 
that  the  government — good  luck  to  it,  an' 
may  it  nade  a  voter  whin  I  am  meself  a 
citizen — provides  lodgins  for  thim  that  calls 
for  thim  in  a  quiet,  paceable  manner ;  an' 
that  bein'  so,  considerin'  the  circumstances 
I  have  mintioned,  I'd  ask  the  favor  of  a 
room.  The  place  is  not  iligant,  but  dacent, 
an'  I  make  no  question." 

"  Come  in  and  shut  that  door,"  growled 
the  officer  at  the  stove. 

"  An'  I  would,  but  I'm  not  alone,"  replied 
the  applicant.  "  Would  ye  have  me  shuttin' 
the  door  in  the  face  of  a  lady  ?" 

Dropping  his  feet  to  the  floor,  the  police 
man  who  had  last  spoken  turned  to  gaze  at 
the  intruder  in  wonder. 

"  I'll  bid  her,  with  yer  lave,  to  come  in," 


48  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

said  the  young  man ;  then  turning  he  called 
into  the  outer  darkness,  "  Norah,  Norah, 
me  dear,  ye  may  come  up." 

He  held  the  heavy  door  full  open,  and  a 
young  woman  came  in  with  a  rush,  the  wind 
forcing  her  skirt  as  well  as  the  light  shawl 
which  she  held  over  her  head  into  bulging 
folds.  She  was  not  more  than  eighteen, 
and  as  she  stood  brushing  the  rain  from 
her  hair  that  fell  shaggily  over  her  fore 
head  she  was  with  her  frank,  unpreten 
tious  beauty  a  sufficiently  charming  picture. 
Plainly,  tidily  clad  as  she  was,  there  was 
evident  in  her  dress  that  self-respecting 
coquetry  that  a  pretty  woman  in  any  sta 
tion  always  finds  means  to  exhibit  in  any 
material,  and  her  face,  beside  its  prettiness, 
was  honest,  wholesome,  and  intelligent.  She 
glanced  timidly  from  one  of  the  strangers 
to  the  other,  and  then  moving  closer  to  her 
companion  she  took  his  hand  in  her  own. 

"  Me  wife,"  announced  the  young  Irish 
man  proudly.  "  Mrs.  Moichel  Casey." 

She  dropped  a  little  courtesy  to  each  of 
the  officers — first  to  the  "door-keeper"  be 
hind  the  desk,  and  then,  in  some  way  divin- 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  49 

ing  that  the  other  was  of  higher  rank,  she 
turned  and  bobbed  a  deeper  one  to  him. 
Standing  hand  in  hand,  she  with  a  certain 
blushing  diffidence  and  he  with  an  air  of 
careless  confidence  that  had  nothing  about 
it  of  impudent  assurance  ;  both  young  and 
evidently  free  from  all  conscious  or  pur 
poseful  evil,  they  were  a  strange  pair  for 
that  sin-haunted  place. 

Accustomed  as  the  burly  captain  was  to 
all  the  varying  degrees  and  complexities  of 
human  malefaction,  this  unexpected  appari 
tion  of  insouciant  innocence  astonished  and 
confused  him  ;  even  the  door-keeper  pre 
pared  to  listen,  for  he  carefully  wiped  his 
pen  and  placed  it  in  the  little  iron  rack.  In 
that  place  a  murder  of  the  most  atrocious 
character  would  hardly  have  caused  a  stir 
of  interest,  but  this  was  certainly  some 
thing  new.  Whining  vagrants  who  had  al 
ready  appeared  as  criminals  had  been  seen 
there  by  the  score;  decrepit  age,  vicious 
indulgence,  imbecile  ignorance,  all  at  one 
time  or  another  had  been  given  shelter 
beneath  that  roof;  but  always,  in  all  who 
had  applied  for  such  protection,  clearly  and 
4 


50  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

plainly  could  be  seen  adequate  cause  for 
such  appeal. 

"  I  know,"  continued  Mr.  Casey,  "  that 
the  place  is  respectable  though  the  com 
pany  is  bad,  an'  I  do  not  hesitate  to  bring 
me  wife  here." 

"  Mike,"  whispered  the  young  woman  re- 
monstratingly,  "  the  gintlemen  moight  think 
that  ye  meant  thim." 

"  Hush,  me  darlin',"  he  answered ;  "  sure 
they'll  see  I  mane  that  it's  the  company 
they  kape." 

As  the  old  police-captain  looked  more 
closely  at  him,  his  experienced  eye  detected 
that  the  natural  gayety  of  the  youngster's 
nature  and  nation  was  very  slightly  but  still 
artificially  heightened. 

"  An'  this,  thin,  is  the  station-house,"  he 
continued.  "  I  niver  before  saw  the  inside 
of  it — whin  I  go  out  of  that  door  may  I  in 
ter  it  for  the  last  toime — but  many  of  me 
frinds,  I  make  no  shame  to  say,  is  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  it.  Norah,  me  gurl, 
it's  your  work,  that  it  is.  Whin  ye  have 
shinin'  before  ye  two  bright  eyes,  it's  little 
that  the  sparkle  of  a  single  glass  '11  attract 


"  THERE  S    NOTHING    HALF   SO    SWEET       51 

ye.  I've  been  a  sober  lad,  gintlemen,  iver 
since  the  toime  I  see  me  gurl.  I'll  not  say 
much  o'  what  I  was  before,  but  I  was  young 
thin  and  wild.  The  divil — may  he  be  sus- 
pinded  by  his  own  tail  so  as  all  the  harm  he 
can  do  will  be  in  the  reach  av  his  hoofs — 
was  strong  in  me,  an'  though  his  riverence 
did  the  best  that  he  could  for  combattin' 
him,  it  was  no  avail.  That  was  in  the  ould 
country ,-  for  I  was  born  in  the  county  Sligo 
before  I  came  here." 

"  You're  a  west-of-Ireland  man,"  said  the 
policeman. 

"That  an'  no  other,"  answered  Casey, 
who  had  at  first  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  officers,  but  now  addressed 
his  remarks  exclusively  to  the  captain. 
He  was  a  middle-aged  man,  and  not  at 
all  the  kind  of  a  person  whose  thoughts, 
a  word,  a  voice,  a  face,  would  easily  start 
down  the  wreck-strewn  road  of  memory. 
But,  for  some  reason,  at  the  moment 
some  force  cracked  the  slowly -harden 
ing  heart-crust.  Perhaps  it  was  the  influ 
ences  of  the  day,  for  no  true  Irishman  feels 
quite  the  same  on  the  iyth  of  March  as  on 


52    " THERE S    NOTHING    HALF   SO    SWEET 

any  other  day  of  the  year,  especially  if  he 
has  been  born  on  the  troubled  and  troub 
lous  island.  And  the  captain  had  been 
born  there  long,  long  before;  in  resurgent 
strength  he  remembered  suddenly  and  with 
out  apparent  cause  the  rude  cabin  almost 
lost  in  the  landscape — so  small,  so  shape 
less,  so  like  in  color  to  the  soil  around  it  that 
it  might  readily  have  been  taken  for  some 
accidental  elevation  of  the  earth ;  he  re 
membered  the  swarming  children,  the  mis 
cellaneous  animals  ;  he  recollected  many  a 
homely  detail  and  many  a  trivial  fact;  and 
then,  his  thoughts  taking  erratic  bound,  he 
recalled  how,  when  he  was  between  child 
hood  and  boyhood,  he  had  watched  the 
glowing  sunset,  with  the  smoke  curling  thin 
ly  and  bluely  up  against  it,  over  in  the  west, 
whither  he  had  been  told  that  the  friends, 
neighbors,  and  relatives  whom  he  had  seen 
depart,  singly  and  in  families,  were  gone, 
and  he  had  wondered  if  the  skies  were 
always  as  bright  in  the  daytimes  of  that 
other  and  wonderful  world. 

"  It's  there  I  lived  till  a  year  this  very 
toime,  sor.     But  it  was  not  there  that  I  first 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  53 

saw  Norah.  It  was  here  in  America — while 
the  feelin'  of  loneliness  was  still  on  me,  that 
I  found  her  —  here  in  America  where  I'd 
come  to  make  me  fortune  —  where  I  ex 
pected  to  pick  up  goold,  an'  where  I  found 
a  jew'l.  The  fortune  '11  come.  When  ye've 
got  love  in  yer  heart,  there's  no  room  for 
fear  or  even  for  hope,  an'  all  waitin's  a  joke, 
seein'  you  don't  wait  for  that.  Ah,  but  it's 
a  hard  toime  we  had.  The  ould  folks  were 
agin  me  from  the  furst ;  but  Norah,  from, 
the  swate  day  whin  she  called  me  an  impu 
dent  thafe  that  no  dacent  gurl  would  spake 
with,  never  deserted  me." 

"  Mike,"  said  his  pretty  companion,  "  the 
gintlemen  may  not  be  carin'  to  hear  all 
this." 

"If  I  wear  your  patience  as  smooth  as  me 
corduroys,  perhaps,  sor,  ye'll  remember  the 
toime  yerself  whin  yer  heart  could  make  the 
journey  from  yer  throat  to  yer  boots  and 
back  agin  quicker  than  ye'd  say  the  saint's 
howly  name,  jist  at  the  distant  sight  of  a 
thrim  shape." 

He  paused  as  if  for  an  answer,  but  re 
ceiving  no  response,  unless  the  quick  con- 


54  "THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

traction  of  his  chief  listener's  shaggy  eye 
brows  might  be  considered  one,  he  con 
tinued  : 

"  They  were  agin  me,  an'  the  since  of  the 
situation  was  with  thim,  I'll  confiss.  What 
a  gurl  loike  Norah  Roach  could  want  with 
a  useless  crayture  loike  Mike  Casey  no  one 
coulcl  see.  I'll  grant  that;  I've  felt  loike 
breakin'  me  own  head  for  its  presumption 
in  thinkin'  av  it.  But  a  gurl,  sor,  should 
be  let  to  have  her  own  way.  The  Lord's 
given  her  those  bright  eyes  for  somethin', 
an'  she  can  see  farther  into  a  human  heart 
than  father  or  mother,  whose  sight's  oft  a  bit 
blurred  with  age.  An'  Norah  looked  into 
my  heart,  an'  seem'  her  own  image  there 
came  back,  as  well  she  moight,  to  her  own 
lookin'-glass  to  take  another  peep." 

"Mike,"  said  the  girl,  "it  was  on  yer 
bended  knees  that  ye  besought  me  to  listen 
to  ye." 

"  Sure  the  more  easy  that  I  might  kiss 
yer  little  hand,  seem'  yer  lips  was  not  al 
lowed  me  thin." 

A  blush — no  faint,  incipient  flush,  but  a 
heavy,  honest  wave  of  color  —  crimsoned 


"THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET"  55 

the  girl's  face  as  she  pettishly  withdrew  her 
hand  from  his. 

"  They  were  agin  me  from  the  first,  for 
they  had  in  their  minds  a  great  marriage  for 
her — a  man  who  owned  siven  dump-wagons 
and  eighteen  horses.  But  she'd  niver  look 
at  him,  even  with  his  velvet  waistcoat  and 
goolden  chain.  If  he  had  been  a  crayture 
av  any  sperit — as  it  was  there  was  nothin' 
I  could  do  with  him.  I  have  been  acquaint 
ed  with  men,"  continued  Mr.  Casey,  reflect 
ively,  "  who  would  not  fight  sober,  but  I 
niver  saw  a  man  but  him  that  would  not 
fight  drunk.  There  was  nothin'  to  do  with 
him  at  all.  The  ould  folks  was  agin  me ; 
the  praste  was  agin  me  ;  all  was  agin  me  -, 
me  own  past  was  even  agin  meself.  I  had 
only  me  love  for  Norah  to  spake  for  me,  an' 
I  made  the  most  of  me  single  frind.  Whin 
she'd  jump  out  av  the  cabin  window  on 
the  summer  nights  and  mate  me  by  the 
willows  on  the  bank  av  the  canal,  she  saw 
I  loved  her  and  she  trusted  me — God  bless 
her  !" — and  his  hand  now  sought  hers — 
"  an'  here  we  are  in  spite  of  all  with  love 
in  our  hearts." 


5&  " THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

It  could  hardly  have  been  the  day  alone 
that  affected  the  listener,  for  he  thought 
now  how  he  himself  had  once  stood  in  al 
most  the  same  situation,  when  he  with  his 
young  wife,  who  had  since  died,  had  landed 
at  Castle  Garden  with  only  the  money  for 
the  day's  support  about  him  ;  and  long  as  it 
was  ago — a  daughter  was  now  teaching  in 
the  public  school  a  block  away — he  lived 
again  in  that  old  time. 

"  What  happened  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  gentler 
tone  than  the  door-keeper  had  ever  before 
heard. 

"  Little  enough.  Norah  would  not  go 
agin  the  expriss  wishes  of  the  ould  people, 
an'  so  she  sid  at  last  that  she'd  marry  the 
man  on  a  certain  day  fixed." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Well,  she  sid  so." 

"  How  comes  it  then  that — " 

"  Oh,  that's  what's  botherin'  ye,  is  it  ? 
Don't  ye  see  if  the  pore  gurl  was  ready  an' 
\villin'  to  do  what  they  wished  she  couldn't 
do  more." 

"  Certainly  not,  but—" 

"  If  the  marriage  could  not  take  place, 
she  bein'  ready,  small  blame  to  her." 


"  THERE  S    NOTHING   HALF   SO   SWEET       57 

"But—" 

"  If  the  man  niver  came,  how  could  she 
be  marryin'  him  ?  An'  he  niver  came,  thrust 
me  for  that.  Some  of  the  b'yes  got  hold 
av  him  an'  fixed  him  illigantly,  an'  thin  to 
make  the  matter  more  sure,  they  nailed  up 
his  doors  and  windows  till  the  fiend  himself 
could  niver  have  got  out.  Shure  how  could 
she  marry  him,  an'  she  so  dutiful  to  her  pa 
rents  ?" 

The  captain  smiled  grimly. 

"  So  thin,  havin'  done  all  in  her  power  to 
plaze  the  family,  she  just  shlipped  out  av 
the  same  window  to  plaze  me,  an'  I  may 
make  bowld  to  say  to  plaze  herself." 

"Rafferty,"  said  the  captain,  turning  to 
the  man  at  the  desk,  "  we  can  lodge  these 
people  for  the  night  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Take  the  fools,  then,  and  do  what  you 
can  for  them."  Rafferty,  followed  by  his 
charges,  started  for  the  door,  through  which 
they  all  disappeared,  with  a  short  scrape  of 
the  foot  and  nod  of  the  head  from  Casey 
and  another  courtesy  from  the  young  wife. 
For  a  moment  the  sound  of  their  steps  could 


58  "  THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET  " 

be  heard  on  the  hard  floor  as  they  sought 
the  inner  recesses  of  the  building,  and  then 
the  silence  of  the  room  was  only  broken 
by  the  ticking  of  the  big  clock  and  the  oc 
casional  splutter  of  the  electric  light. 

Presently,  however,  the  voices  of  some 
persons  advancing  rapidly  along  the  corri 
dor  reached  the  room,  and  the  door  leading 
to  the  regions  beyond  was  thrown  hurriedly 
open.  Rafferty  and  the  young  man  entered 
in  animated  discussion. 

"  Let  me  spake  to  him,"  said  Casey,  ex 
citedly.  "  Ye  cannot  kape  me  from  spakin' 
to  him."  Then  stepping  briskly  across  the 
intervening  space,  he  again  stood  before  the 
astonished  officer  at  the  stove. 

"  Jist  a  little  look  here  wan  side,  if  ye 
plaze,"  he  said,  persuasively. 

With  a  docility  such  as  the  door-keeper 
had  never  witnessed  the  puissant  and  dread 
ed  captain  of  the  First  Precinct  allowed  him 
self  to  be  led  into  a  corner,  and  consented, 
at  first  carelessly,  to  glance  at  and  then  to 
read  carefully  a  small  bit  of  paper  that  Casey 
drew  from  an  inner  pocket  and  held  before 


"  THERE  S    NOTHING    HALF    SO    SWEET        59 

his  eyes.  The  subordinate,  who  was  watch 
ing  the  scene  with  absorbing  interest,  saw 
his  superior  look  quickly  at  the  young  fel 
low,  and  then,  after  a  laugh  that  ended 
somewhat  abruptly,  turn  from  him  and  walk 
across  the  room. 

"  Rafferty,"  he  said,  as  he  wheeled  about, 
"  take  these  people  and  treat  them,  as  near 
as  we  are  able,  as  if  they  were  in  the  best 
hotel  in  town.  D'  ye  understand  ? — break 
every  rule  we've  got  if  they  want  it." 

Speechless  in  his  wonder,  the  obedient 
Rafferty  led  his  now  triumphant  opponent 
through  the  same  door  by  which  they  had 
entered. 

The  clock  ticked  on,  and  the  light,  after 
passing  through  a  sputtering  and  purple 
eclipse,  shone  forth  steadily  for  some  time. 
After  a  while  Rafferty  again  returned.  As 
he  entered  he  glanced  at  the  officer  he  had 
left  behind,  and  found  that  he  had  resumed 
that  attitude  at  the  rail  that  he  must  have 
adopted  with  his  citizenship.  Crossing  the 
floor  silently,  the  door-keeper  sought  his 
former  place  at  the  desk  and  prepared  to 
go  on  with  his  work.  Hardly,  however,  had 


60  " THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET" 

he  taken  up  his  pen  when  he  was  startled 
by  an  unwonted  sound.  He  looked  up  as 
tounded.  Could  it  be  true  ?  In  all  the 
years  of  his  experience  in  the  place  he  had 
never  known  such  a  thing.  His  superior 
was  actually  singing.  At  first  low  and 
doubtingly,  and  then  louder  and  more  sure 
ly,  in  hoarse,  cracked  voice,  he  was  hum 
ming  to  himself  the  refrain  of  some  song. 
The  listening  man  at  last,  with  fresh  amaze 
ment,  caught  the  words  of  the  rudely  ren 
dered  melody  : 

"  But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream." 

It  was  so  the  words  ran. 

Rising,  the  elder  policeman  went  to  the 
window,  against  which  the  rain  had  begun 
to  beat  violently,  and,  drumming  on  the 
pane  with  his  fingers,  proceeded  to  whistle 
the  simple  air. 

"  Rafferty,"  he  said,  suddenly  turning  to 
his  subordinate,  "  all  the  fools  in  the  world 
aren't  dead  yet." 

Rafferty  looked  dubiously  at  his  pen. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  those  two  young 
idiots  have  done  ?" 


"  THERE'S  NOTHING  HALF  so  SWEET  "  61 

Rafferty's  imagination  was  unequal  to  the 
demand  made  upon  it. 

"  By — ,"  began  the  captain,  and  then  sud 
denly  stopped  short.  "  They  were  only  mar 
ried  this  afternoon.  That  was  the  certificate 
he  showed  me.  They  are  on  their  wedding- 
trip,  do  you  hear  ? — and  the  first  night  of  it 
they're  spending  in  the  station-house." 

Rafferty  gazed  at  his  superior  as  if  he 
had  expected  him  to  laugh,  and  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  he  did  not. 

Turning  again  and  looking  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  the  captain  hummed 
once  more  between  his  teeth,  in  a  voice  as 
hoarse  as  that  of  the  rising  wind, 

"No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream." 


A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS" 


"A  MAD  WORLD,  MY  MASTERS" 

Two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
January  i,  189-. 

As  this  journal  will  never  be  seen  by 
other  eyes  than  mine,  I  shall  write  with 
more  than  the  autobiographic  frankness  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  of  Jean  Jacques  Rous 
seau,  of  Anthony  Trollope.  I  will  not  be 
guilty  of  that  highly-praised  form  of  hypoc 
risy,  that  senseless  aberration,  that  is  called 
modesty.  I  possess  unusual,  even  strange 
ly  exceptional,  mental  powers.  I  have  al 
ways  found  that  I  could  easily  comprehend 
the  natures  of  all  persons  whom  I  have 
really  known,  understanding  their  every  ac 
tion  and  often  anticipating  their  very  words, 
and  I  can  only  think  that  what  I  compre 
hend  I  must  contain,  and  that,  therefore, 
mine  must  exceed  all  other  intelligences.  I 
do  not  know  that  I  should  make  any  boast 


66          "  A    MAD  WORLD,   MY    MASTERS  " 

of  this,  for,  in  truth,  the  intellects  of  those 
I  have  encountered — and  I  have  met  many 
of  the  most  famous  and  respected  men  of 
my  day — have  not  been  of  a  nature  to  ex 
cite  my  admiration.  Sooner  or  later  I  have 
discovered  the  idiosyncratic  derangement 
marring  the  symmetry  of  the  mind.  Every 
where  I  have  found  men  possessed  of  some 
mental  defect,  guilty  of  some  unreason — 
mastered  by  love,  driven  by  hate,  embit 
tered  by  envy,  deluded  by  vanity,  sunken 
in  superstition,  restless  with  ambition,  eager 
in  faction.  I  view  with  amazement  and 
horror  the  state  of  mankind.  The  world, 
seen  beneath  the  calm,  clear  light  of  pure 
reason,  appears  to  me  to  be  suffering  from 
universal  dementia.  But  why  use  a  palli 
ating  word  ?  Why  not  recognize  the  fact 
in  strong,  familiar  English  ?  The  world  is 
mad. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  I  am  what  is  called 
a  successful  man.  I  do  not  wonder  that  I 
am  envied,  flattered,  feared.  My  only  as 
tonishment  is  that  I  have  not  accomplished 
more — not  acquired  unprecedented  power — 
not  won  unexampled  wealth.  I  know  that 


"A    MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS"          67 

I  possess  wide  influence  and  a  great  fort 
une,  but  with  my  exceptional  abilities  I 
should  have  done  more.  I  am  so  strong 
and  mankind  is  so  weak.  I  am  so  practical 
and  all  others  so  visionary.  I  am  so  sensi 
ble  and  the  rest  so  irrational.  Search,  try 
as  I  will,  I  can  find  no  inexplicable  desires, 
no  unreasoning  prejudices,  no  such  ignorant 
credulity  as  I  have  discovered  in  all  with 
whom  I  have  been  brought  in  contact.  I 
can  discern  no  such  eccentric  offshoots 
from  concentric  self. 

I  am  aware  that  I  have  much,  in  a  mate 
rial  way,  that  has  been  and  is  of  great  as 
sistance  to  me.  I  have  always  been  very 
rich,  receiving  a  large  fortune  from  my 
mother — my  father's  first  wife.  This  I 
have  nearly  doubled,  so  careful  have  I 
been  in  its  investment  and  expenditure. 
My  half-brother,  Edward,  has  often  re 
monstrated  with  me  about  the  time  and 
thought  I  give  to  every  dollar  I  spend,  say 
ing  that  I  already  had  more  money  than  I 
wanted. 

"You  are  so  rich,"  he  has  said,  almost 
contemptuously,  in  his  strange,  impulsive 


68  "  A    MAD    WORLD,   MY    MASTERS  " 

fashion,  "  that  you  might  squander  a  penny 
or  two  now  and  then." 

"  What  do  you  call  rich?"  I  asked,  trying, 
as  I  always  do,  to  bring  him  directly  to  the 
facts  of  the  case ;  "  can  any  one  be  too 
rich?" 

"He  is  rich,"  he  answered  instantly,  "who 
need  only  work  for  fame." 

I  shook  my  head  sadly,  for  I  wished  him 
to  understand  that  I  disapproved  of  such 
false,  misleading  generalities.  I  am  always 
deeply  grieved  when  I  find  him  so  fanciful, 
so  inaccurate,  so  deluded. 

I  have  entered  public  life  and  have  held 
several  important  offices.  I  did  not  do  this 
from  any  foolish,  unpractical  ideas,  such  as 
I  often  find  in  young  and  inexperienced 
men.  I  took  up  politics  as  I  would  any 
ordinary  business  enterprise.  I  found  mis 
management,  corruption,  and  ignorance  on 
every  hand.  As  a  citizen — as  a  member  of 
this  joint-stock  company  bearing  the  name 
of  the  United  States — I  thought  that  it 
would  be  wise  for  me — a  large  holder  of  its 
stock — to  look  into  the  conduct  of  its  affairs. 
I  might  in  so  acting  serve  as  an  example 


"  A    MAD    WORLD,   MY    MASTERS  "          &9 

for  others.  Such  examples  are,  indeed,  sadly 
needed.  My  friends,  when  by  chance  they 
speak  of  public  matters,  allude  to  those 
occupying  official  position  as  a  gentleman 
might  to  the  steward  on  his  estate — as  a 
person  something  above  a  servant,  possibly 
a  very  worthy  being,  but  certainly  not  an 
equal.  And  I  wish  to  say  here  that  I  firmly 
believe  that  the  aristocracy  of  America  is 
the  most  careless  and  luxurious  that  has 
ever  existed  since  society  took  form,  for  it 
is  the  only  one  that  has  been  unwilling  to 
exert  itself  to  the  extent  of  undertaking  the 
hitherto  honorable  occupation  of  governing 
— a  right  for  which  other  aristocracies  have 
given  battle — and  consented  to  pay  others 
to  do  it. 

When  long  ago  I  told  Edward  what  I  in 
tended  to  do,  he  merely  laughed  at  me. 

"  Why  should  you  trouble  yourself  about 
this  patch-work  of  a  country  ?  Politics,  they 
say,  is  a  game,  and  success  in  American 
political  life  depends,  as  it  does  in  our  na 
tional  poker,  only  on  luck  and  '  bluffing.'  " 

I  did  not  attempt  to  answer  him.  Per 
haps  it  would  have  been  better  had  I  al- 


70          "A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS" 

ways  argued  each  point,  and  at  any  cost  of 
time  and  labor  brought  him  to  see  reason. 
I  fear  I  have  humored  him  too  much. 

I  am  not  greatly  liked.  At  this,  however, 
I  am  not  in  the  least  astonished.  Any  one 
so  evidently  superior  as  myself  must  neces 
sarily  be  exceedingly  unpopular.  My  posi 
tion  and  reputation  are  in  themselves  awing, 
and  my  manner  is  not  one  of  familiar  gayety. 
The  fact  is,  I  must  confess,  not  displeasing 
to  me.  I  am  not  sorry  that  the  meaning 
less  jest  halts  on  the  tongue  and  the  heed 
less  laugh  is  stilled  at  my  approach.  It  is 
part  of  the  homage  involuntarily  paid  to 
my  great  mental  elevation.  I  am  aware 
that  people  even  avoid  me.  This,  too,  is 
only  natural.  What  can  vain  trifling  have 
in  common  with  serious  purpose  ?  At  a 
ball,  whither  I  had  unwillingly  gone,  I 
heard  one  young  girl  speak  some  words  to 
another  that  I  think  as  clearly  as  anything 
express  the  feeling  with  which  I  am  re 
garded. 

"Your  great  man  is  too  ponderous,"  she 
said,  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  I  was  close 
behind  her,  "  like  the  pious  yEneas  and  the 


"A    MAD   WORLD,   MY   MASTERS"          71 

'  blameless  king '  of  the  race  of  Mentor  and 
of  Imlac.  He  has  all  the  dulness  of  a  calm 
and  all  the  terrors  of  a  tempest.  I  would 
as  soon  talk  agnosticism  to  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury  or  nihilism  to  the  Czar  of 
Russia  as  address  an  average  society  re 
mark  to  him." 

Such,  in  brief  statement,  is  a  summing  up 
of  my  character,  possession,  and  position  as 
I  stand  on  this  winter's  night  at  the  begin 
ning  of  another  January.  As  this  period 
returns  I  always  endeavor  to  strike  a  trial 
balance,  as  it  were,  with  myself ;  and  now, 
having  reviewed  my  present  situation,  I 
feel  competent  to  enter  upon  these  coin 
ing  months. 

To-night  we  have,  as  it  is  called,  seen  the 
old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in — a  pro 
ceeding  apparently  necessitating  much  ri 
diculous  and  inane  frivolity.  Edward,  my 
half-brother,  was,  as  he  always  is  on  such 
occasions,  the  chief  promoter  of  the  even 
ing's  levity,  most  ably  assisted  by  Edith, 
who,  I  must  say,  brought  unfailing  help  to 
the  execution  of  any  proposed  and  prepos 
terous  plan.  At  dinner  there  were  only 


72          "  A    MAD    WORLD,   MY   MASTERS  " 

Edward,  Edith,  her  father,  and  one  or  two 
others  ;  but  during  the  evening  many  friends 
came  in,  and  when  the  clock  struck  twelve 
we  formed  a  goodly  company.  We  all  stood 
silent  while  the  last  stroke  trembled  away, 
and  the  pealing  of  the  city's  bells  came  to 
us  through  the  open  window,  now  loud,  now 
low,  on  the  bitter  winter  wind.  Edith  had 
drawn  the  curtain  about  her  as  a  protection 
against  the  cold  and  stood  listening.  I  saw 
Edward  look  at  her.  Was  it  a  revelation? 
Edith  blushed  quickly,  deeply,  and  looked 
down.  Could  he  for  an  instant  think  of 
asking  her  to  marry  him?  Would  she  for 
an  instant  entertain  the  idea  ?  Remember 
ing  his  poverty  and  hers,  it  would  hardly 
seem  probable.  Still,  I  know  too  well  the 
real  imbecility  of  this  boasted  winner  in  the 
"competitive  examination"  of  evolution — 
man — to  believe  it  impossible.  My  position 
may,  indeed,  become  difficult  and  perplex 
ing. 

January  9,  189-. 

To-day  Edward  regularly  took  up  his  res 
idence  in  my  house.  Since  the  loss  of  his 
money — the  loss  ! — rather  the  absurd  and 


'  EDITH    HAU    DKAWN    THE   CURTAIN    AHOUT    HER. 


"A   MAD    WORLD,    MY    MASTERS  73 

criminal  surrender  of  his  fortune  to  the 
creditors  of  the  firm  in  whose  bankruptcy 
he  was  legally  only  partially  involved  — 
since  that  time  we  have  had  much  talk  as 
to  where  he  had  better  go,  and  finally  I 
asked  him  to  live  with  me  until  something 
could  be  definitely  arranged  as  to  his  fut 
ure.  Our  conferences  have  necessitated 
his  constant  presence  in  the  house,  and  I 
have  recently  seen  more  of  him  than  I  have 
at  any  time  since  we  were  boys.  I  have 
watched  him  closely,  and  I  have  discov 
ered,  among  other  things,  that  his  atten 
tions  to  Edith  are  greater  than  the  mere 
exigencies  of  society  demand.  I  fear  that 
in  his  impulsive,  unthinking  way  he  has 
allowed  himself  to  fall  in  love  with  her,  as 
it  is  called — a  phrase  that  on  its  face  shows 
that  humanity  at  large  has  some  remote 
appreciation  of  the  undesirable  and  lower 
ing  nature  of  the  condition,  for  it  directly 
implies  that  the  state  is  not  voluntarily 
entered  upon,  but  that  the  unfortunate  has 
heedlessly  stumbled  or  "fallen"  into  it. 

A  stronger  contrast  than  the  one  exist 
ing  between  my  own  character  and  that  of 


74          "A    MAD    WORLD,    MY    MASTERS" 

my  half-brother  could  not  well  be  found. 
My  calm,  equable  temperament  has  always 
been  sharply  opposed  to  his  wild,  extrava 
gant,  enthusiastic  nature.  His  passionate 
joys  and  griefs  have  always  been  wholly 
inexplicable  to  me,  but  now  at  last  I  fear 
I  have  learned  the  true,  sad  cause.  Even 
when  we  were  boys — when  we  were  little 
more  than  children  —  I  remember  that  I 
was  often  amazed  at  his  want  of  self-con 
trol.  I  recollect  that  when  I  was  about 
twelve  years  old  and  he  several  years 
younger  I  was  astounded  at  the  wild  ex 
cess  of  his  grief  at  a  very  trivial  incident. 
A  litter  of  puppies  that  we  owned  together 
was  one  day  accidentally  destroyed.  For 
a  whole  day  Edward  refused  to  eat,  and  it 
was  a  week  before  he  recovered  his  accus 
tomed  gayety.  Through  the  contempt  I 
felt  for  such  weakness,  even  at  that  early 
age,  I  am  sure  I  was  strengthened  in  that 
moderation  for  which  I  have  always  been 
celebrated.  Remembering  his  extravagant 
conduct  on  that  occasion,  I  cannot  but  feel 
that  if  any  sorrow  should  come  to  him  now 
when  years  have  brought  him  no  greater 


"  A   MAD   WORLD,    MY   MASTERS  "          75 

power  of  self-command,  but  rather  greater 
laxity  of  will,  the  result  might  indeed  be 
lamentable. 

January  17,  189-. 

Since  Edward  has  been  living  with  me  I 
have  followed  his  movements  closely,  and 
discovered  much  to  cause  me  uneasiness, 
even  alarm.  He  spends  a  great  part  of 
the  day  with  Edith  —  a  waste  of  time  he 
clearly  cannot  afford.  They  talk,  they 
walk,  they  read,  they  paint  together.  I  can 
no  longer  doubt  that  he  will  soon,  if  he 
has  not  done  it  already,  ask  her  to  become 
his  wife.  Whether  she  would  consent  I  can 
not  now  say.  She  is  not  an  unusually  silly 
girl,  and  I  think  would  hardly  commit  the 
inexcusable  folly  of  accepting  a  man  who 
is  absolutely  a  pauper.  I  cannot,  indeed, 
believe  that  she  could  become  the  victim  of 
that  strange  and  fantastic  madness  that  is 
named  love.  I  cannot  think  it  possible, 
but  every  day  my  confidence  in  the  ration 
ality  of  all  around  me  becomes  less  and 
less. 

I   have   always  believed  that  a  marriage 


76          "A    MAD    WORLD,    MY    MASTERS" 

between  Edith  and  myself  would  fulfil  ev 
ery  reasonable  requirement.  She  is  young, 
handsome,  of  excellent  family.  I  am  a  man 
of  settled  habits,  established  reputation,  and 
above  all,  large  wealth. 

January  22,  189-. 

To-day  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Edward 
about  his  future.  I  have  often,  since  the 
loss  of  his  money,  pointed  out  to  him  that 
it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  do  some 
thing  towards  his  own  support.  I  must 
confess  that  he  has  always,  and  much  to 
my  surprise,  readily  acceded  to  what  I  have 
said. 

For  some  time  I  have  been  looking  for 
some  suitable  occupation  for  him,  and  yester 
day  I  made  up  my  mind  to  offer  him  a  subor 
dinate  position  in  a  mill  in  which  I  have 
a  large  interest.  I  laid  my  proposition  be 
fore  him  this  afternoon,  and  to  my  utter 
amazement  found  that  he  was  unwilling  to 
accept  it. 

He  told  me  that  he  was  determined  to 
become  an  artist. 

For  an  instant  I  was  too  astonished  even 


UA    MAD   WORLD,    MY    MASTERS"  77 

to  answer,  but  quickly  realizing  that  I  must 
at  once  turn  him  from  his  folly,  I  told  him 
plainly  what  I  thought.  While  he  was  in 
possession  of  his  fortune,  he  was  at  liberty, 
I  said,  to  amuse  himself  with  any  unre- 
munerative  occupation  he  saw  fit,  but  now, 
I  pointed  out,  his  altered  circumstances 
necessitated  real,  practical,  strenuous  exer 
tion. 

"  I  can  support  myself,"  he  replied.  "  I 
may  even  say  more.  I  believe  that  I  can 
make  myself  known." 

I  told  him  that  this  was  merely  visionary, 
or  at  best  problematical — that  a  certainty 
is  as  much  better  than  a  hope,  as  a  fact  is 
better  than  a  doubt. 

"A  certainty,"  he  answered,  losing  him 
self  in  one  of  his  constantly  recurring  fits 
of  blind  enthusiasm,  "  has  always  been  the 
enemy  of  success.  Genius  is  courage.  I 
might  lead  the  life  of  a  torpid  fool  in  your 
little  spinning  village,  eat  enough  and  drink 
enough,  and  in  time,  when  the  senses  were 
through  with  me,  die  and  be  buried.  Would 
one  state  differ  materially  from  another 
—  would  it  matter  whether  I  were  above 


78          "A   MAD   WORLD,    MY   MASTERS" 

ground  or  below  ?  Would  that  dull  accu 
mulation  of  scarce  animate  years  be  worth 
an  instant  of  struggling,  hoping,  fearing, 
despairing  existence  ?  Living  is  striving, 
and  striving  is  living.  I  would  rather,  at 
any  time,  live  under  the  inspiring  influence 
of  a  glorious  possibility  than  under  the 
deadening  depression  of  a  tame  assur 
ance." 

I  argued  with  him,  but  to  no  purpose. 
This  strange  infatuation  has  taken  strong 
possession  of  him,  a  possession  too  firm  to 
be  shaken  by  words.  He  must  be  tried  by 
incisive  fact  before  he  can  realize  his  folly. 

This  new  freak  will  probably  cause  me 
much  trouble  and  expense.  He  says  he 
would  rather  starve  in  a  garret  than  give 
up  this — the  cherished  purpose  of  his  life. 
He  protests  that  he  never  will  accept  a 
penny  from  me.  I  wish  I  could  have  some 
faith  in  the  strength  of  his  resolution. 

January  26,  189-. 

I  am  very  much  disappointed  in  Edward. 
Putting  my  desk  in  order  to-day,  I  found  a 
note  written  to  him  that  had,  in  some  way, 


"  A    MAD    WORLD,    MY   MASTERS  "          79 

gotten  among  my  papers.     On  the  back  of 
it  were  scrawled  some  rhyming  lines. 

[A  number  of  verses,  evidently  the  ones 
mentioned,  were  found  in  the  journal,  upon 
a  loose  note  such  as  is  described,  and  are 
here  inserted. — ED.] 

Dreaming,  although  it  is  day, 
Drowsily  stretched  on  the  grass ; 

Letting  my  wits  run  away ; 
Letting  realities  pass. 

Drowsily  stretched  on  the  grass  ; 

Building  up  castles  in  air  ; 
Letting  realities  pass  ; 

Free  from  the  turmoil  and  care. 
Building  up  castles  in  air  ; 

Lazily  lying  at  rest  ; 
Free  from  the  turmoil  and  care  ; 

Wasting  my  time,  they  protest. 
Lazily  lying  at  rest  ; 

Blinking  away  at  the  sun  ; 
Wasting  my  time,  they  protest, 

Since  there's  so  much  to  be  done. 
Blinking  away  at  the  sun  ; 

I  wish  them  luck  on  their  way. 
Since  there's  so  much  to  be  done, 

I  shall  have  nothing  to  say. 


So          "  A    MAD    WORLD,    MY    MASTERS  " 

I  wish  them  luck  on  their  way. 

If  they  but  leave  me  to  dream, 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  say, 

False  though  the  vision  may  seem. 

If  they  but  leave  me  to  dream, 

Dreaming  that  you  could  love  me  ; 

False  though  the  vision  may  seem  ; 
Dreaming  what  never  can  be. 

Dreaming  that  you  could  love  me  ; 

Dreaming,  although  it  is  day  ; 
Dreaming  what  never  can  be  ; 

Letting  my  wits  run  away. 

Could  anything  be  more  preposterous, 
more  wantonly  reckless,  more  heedless  of 
all  obligation  ?  I  did  not  expect  to  find 
the  firmness  of  purpose,  the  recognition  of 
practical  considerations,  that  are  part  of  a 
strong  character;  but  I  certainly  did  not 
expect  to  discover  such  a  shameless  repu 
diation  of  all  the  duties  of  life. 

February  2,  189-. 

My  mind  is  made  up.  Reason  demands 
that  I  should  ask  Edith  to  marry  me.  I 
must  do  this,  if  for  nothing  else,  in  order  to 
save  Edward  and  herself.  I  cannot  but 


"  A    MAD    WORLD,  MY  MASTERS  "  8l 

think  that  my  duty  to  my  kind,  and  the 
dictates  of  that  natural  religion  of  human 
ity  that  teaches  us  how  much  we  owe  to 
those  who  are  to  come  after  us — the  great 
positive  belief — command  me  to  do  all  in 
my  power  to  prevent  their  union.  1  firmly 
believe  that  her  reason  is  mastered  by  that 
strange  frenzy — love.  If  I  do  not  quickly 
interfere,  she  may  fulfil  the  promise  that  I 
believe  she  has  already  made  to  Edward 
and  become  his  wife. 

To-day  I  took  the  first  step  towards  the 
accomplishment  of  my  purpose.  I  went  to 
her  father,  an  aged  clergyman,  who  had 
been  one  of  my  father's  most  intimate 
friends,  and  asked  his  consent  to  address 
his  daughter.  He  received  me  with  evident 
constraint.  I  have  always  suspected  that 
he  disliked  me. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
trust  her  fully.  If  you  obtain  her  consent 
you  shall  have  mine." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  I  answered,  "  I  want  more 
than  your  consent.  I  want — I  fear  I  need 
— your  assistance." 

"  I  am  not  one  to  advise  a  girl  in  a  mat- 
6 


82  "A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS" 

ter  of   this  sort.     The   free,  natural,  unre 
strained  impulse  is  the  best  guide." 

"  But,"  I  almost  interrupted,  "  this  is  not 
merely  what  is  called  an  affair  of  the  heart. 
I  am  a  serious,  practical  man.  I  am  very 
rich.  I  can  give  your  daughter  all  that  she 
desires.  In  short,  every  conclusion  of  com 
mon-sense  must  tell  you  that  I  am  the 
proper  husband  for  her." 

"I  know,"  he  replied,  reluctantly,  "that 
you  offer  every  worldly  advantage,  and  for 
her  sake  I  am  doing  what  I  never  did  for 
myself.  I  am  remembering  purely  worldly 
things.  She  has  known  you  all  her  life.  If 
she  can  love  you  I  shall  be  glad  that  so 
many  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  should 
be  hers." 

"  What  has  this  thing  that  you  call  love 
to  do  with  it  ?"  I  asked,  almost  impatiently. 
"  I  can  do  for  her  what  few  others  could 
ever  hope  to  do.  If  she  married  Edward, 
for  example,  as  I  sometimes  suspect  she 
thinks  of  doing,  she  would  be  subjected  to 
a  life  of  self-denial  and  perhaps  even  of 
physical  discomfort.  It  is  our  duty  to  save 
her  from  herself." 


"  A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS  "          83 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  spoken  of  your 
brother,"  he  quickly  replied.  "  I  have,  in 
deed,  sometimes  thought  that  her  heart  was 
given  to  him,  and,  unfortunate  as  such  a 
marriage  would  be  in  a  worldly  way,  if  she 
really  loves  him  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  op 
pose  it." 

"  Why  not  ?"  I  asked,  hardly  concealing 
my  disgust  at  such  absurd  sentimentality. 

"  I  might  be  responsible  for  her  future  un- 
happiness — even  for  her  eternal  misery.  A 
single  error  may  harden  the  conscience  and 
work  irremediable  evil  to  the  soul." 

"  Do  you  wish  your  daughter,"  I  asked, 
with  some  warmth,  "  to  give  up  the  real  ad 
vantages  I  offer  her  for  an  absurd  fancy  ?" 

"  Love  is  God  speaking  in  the  world,  and 
none  dare  disobey  His  behests,"  he  replied, 
solemnly.  "  Self-seeking  and  avarice,  like  all 
other  vices,  once  admitted  to  the  heart,  turn 
traitors  and  let  in  their  allies.  It  is  only 
by  watchful  resistance  that  we  can  hope  to 
save  ourselves — to  attain  the  glories  of  the 
life  to  come." 

"And  would  you  renounce  the  present, 
the  actual,  the  almost  tangible  good  for 


84          "  A   MAD  WORLD,  MY   MASTERS  " 

the  vague  blessings  of  a  problematical  fut 
ure?" 

"  Like  Kant,  I  give  up  imperfect  knowl 
edge  in  order  to  make  room  for  perfect  be 
lief." 

I  did  not  argue  with  him.  I  have  his 
permission  to  urge  my  suit  with  the  daugh 
ter.  That  is  all  I  sought.  I  hope  that  she 
may  be  more  reasonable  than  the  father. 

February  6,  iSg- 

I  become  more  and  more  anxious  about 
Edward.  At  times  he  is  moody  and  de 
jected  to  an  unusual  degree,  and  again  he 
is  unnaturally,  feverishly  exhilarated.  When 
Edith  is  not  present  he  seems  to  lose  all  in 
terest  in  what  is  going  on,  and  only  on  her 
reappearance  does  he  exhibit  any  signs  of 
real  attention. 

February  15,  189-. 
I  have  spoken  to  Edith  at  last. 
I  drove  out  with  a  large  party  to  skate 
on   a  lake  which  lies  near  the  town,  and 
in  the  afternoon  I  told  her  what  I   have 
for  a  long  time  purposed  to  tell  her.     It 
happened  in  this  wise.     After  an  hour  or 


"  A    MAD   WORLD,  MY    MASTERS  "  85 

so  on  the  ice  Edith,  I  noticed,  became  tired 
and  seated  herself  on  a  rock  on  the  shore 
from  which  the  snow  had  been  blown  by  the 
wind.  I  paused  at  her  side,  and  the  rest 
soon  passed  on.  The  sun  was  just  sinking 
over  the  brim  of  the  valley,  and  the  shad 
ows  of  the  hills  fell  long  and  dark  over  the 
snow-covered  country.  Gleams  caught  from 
the  flaming  sky  shone  on  the  ice,  and  a  thin 
new  moon  hung  low  before  us.  A  perfect 
stillness  was  over  all,  broken  only  now  and 
then  by  the  faint,  far-away  laughter  of  the 
skaters  taking  one  more  turn  before  depart 
ure.  I  do  not  note  these  facts  for  the  rea 
son  that  they  had  any  such  effect  upon  me 
as  I  have  found  described  in  some  of  the 
few  romances  that  curiosity  has  led  me  to 
read,  but  rather  for  the  purpose  of  record 
ing  that  I  was  entirely  free  from  such  ex 
traneous  influences.  I  was  as  calm  and 
collected  as  if  I  had  been  buying  a  ticket 
at  the  dullest  and  dreariest  railway-station 
in  the  country. 

We  were  alone.  The  time  had  come.  I 
determined  to  make  one  last,  logical  appeal 
to  her  reason. 


86          "A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS" 

"  I  have,"  I  began,  "  a  proposition  to  make 
to  you,  and  I  ask  your  earnest  consideration 
of  it." 

She  turned  her  eyes,  which  had  been 
fixed  on  a  light  that  had  just  twinkled  into 
being  on  the  opposite  shore,  in  astonish 
ment  upon  me. 

"  I  wish  to  ask  you,"  I  continued,  "  to 
marry  me.  Do  not  answer  at  once.  You 
will,  I  am  sure,  on  reflection  find  that  for 
every  reason  it  would  be  wise  for  you  to  do 
so.  I  am  not  old  or  ill-looking,  and  I  cer 
tainly  have  distinguished  position  and  im 
mense  wealth." 

She  seemed  to  regard  me  with  steadily 
increasing  apprehension — almost  with  ter 
ror — and  when  I  paused  she  shrank  from 
me  and  answered  hurriedly, 

"  I  must  ask  you  not  to  say  this  to  me. 
I  cannot  listen  to  you." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  You  should  know. 
I  am  engaged  to  your  brother." 

Although  I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised 
at  this  announcement,  I  did  not  reply  at 
once. 


UA   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS"          87 

"  That  need  not  necessarily  make  any 
difference,"  I  said,  finally.  "  It  is  not  now 
too  late  to  correct  the  mistake  you  have 
made.  I  imagine  that  you  have  acted  from 
impulse.  I  believe  that  upon  reconsidera 
tion  you  will  readily  see  the  error  into  which 
you  have  fallen.  You  will  realize  how  ab 
surd,  how  insane,  such  a  marriage  would 
be.  You  will  probably  tell  me  that  you  love 
him.  I  make  an  appeal  to  your  better  rea 
son.  Try  and  free  yourself,  at  least  for  the 
moment,  from  this  misleading  fancy.  Is  it 
wise  to  throw  away  all  that  I  have  to  offer 
— wealth,  position,  power — for  a  transitory 
whim  ?  Is  it  not  better,  wiser  on  the  whole, 
that  you  should  at  once  break  this  unrea 
sonable  engagement  and  marry  me  ?" 

She  again  looked  far  away  at  the  light  on 
the  opposite  shore. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,"  she  said,  sudden 
ly.  "  You  do  not  remember  who  you  are — 
who  I  am." 

"  Is  this  reason  ?"  I  asked,  patiently. 

11  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  not  reason. 
It  is  something  beyond  reason.  Honor 
transcends  reason.  I  am  engaged  to  marry 


88  "  A    MAD   WORLD,  MY    MASTERS  " 

your  brother.     You  have  no  right  to  speak 
to  me — I,  none  to  listen  to  you." 

I  need  make  no  comment  on  this  strange 
interview.  Poor  thing,  so  blind,  so  weak, 
so  unreasoning.  I  can  only  pity,  I  cannot 
blame  her. 

February  17,  189-. 

Edith's  mother  has  heard  of  my  proposal 
for  her  daughter's  hand,  and  is  doing  all 
she  can  to  aid  me.  If  it  were  not  for  nu 
merous  proofs  of  mental  weakness  that  I 
have  discovered  in  this  maternal  being,  I 
should  believe  that  she  was  a  person  of  un 
common  sense.  As  it  is,  I  must  conclude 
that  this  is  only  an  accidental  and  unusual 
manifestation  of  rationality. 

March  3,  189-. 

I  saw  Edith  again  to-day.  She  was  much 
quieter  and  apparently  less  unsettled  in  her 
mind. 

My  position  is  certainly  perplexing.  Not 
for  a  moment  can  I  believe  that  I  should 
consent  to  her  marriage  with  Edward.  If 
for  no  other  reason,  it  would  be  my  duty  to 
break  off  the  engagement  on  account  of  his 


"  A    MAD    WORLD,  MY    MASTERS  "          89 

unhappy  state  of  mind.  As  yet  with  an  in 
finite  cunning  he  has  managed  to  conceal 
his  infirmity  from  every  one  but  myself,  and 
I  hesitate  to  reveal  what  has  hitherto  been 
unsuspected.  I  shall  let  all  go  on  as  it  is 
until  I  am  compelled  to  act.  Rather,  how 
ever,  than  have  her  marry  one  who  is  insane, 
I  will  tell  the  truth. 

March  8,  189-. 

I  am  rarely  at  a  loss  how  to  act  under 
any  given  circumstances — indeed,  I  can  rec 
ollect  no  occasion  on  which  I  was  not  able 
promptly  and  effectively  to  meet  the  exi 
gencies  of  the  moment.  I  am  glad  that  I 
have  the  clearness  of  mind  to  perceive  in 
stantly  the  proper  course  to  pursue,  and 
the  strength  of  mind  to  act  in  accordance 
with  my  perceptions.  I  am  especially  glad 
at  this  present  time,  for  if  I  had  not  this 
power  of  instantaneous  decision,  I  should 
not  have  known  how  to  carry  myself  in  the 
scene  through  which  I  have  just  passed. 

I  received  a  note  from  Edith  this  morning, 
asking  me  to  see  her,  as  there  was  some 
thing  important  about  which  she  wished  to 
speak  to  me.  I  did  not  quite  like  to  be  dis- 


9°         "  A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS  " 

turbed.  My  agent  was  making  his  month 
ly  report,  and  it  is  excessively  annoying  to  be 
interrupted  when  busy.  I  supposed  that  she 
wanted  to  tell  me  that  she  had  concluded 
to  accept  me  as  her  husband,  an  announce 
ment  that  could  as  well  be  made  at  any  other 
time  ;  but,  on  the  chance  that  she  really  had 
something  urgent  to  say  to  me,  I  dismissed 
the  man  and  hurried  across  the  lawn  to  her 
house.  As  I  entered  the  room  I  saw  that 
she  was  greatly  agitated.  She  paced  the 
floor  excitedly,  and  I  noticed  that  her  in 
tertwined  ringers  worked  nervously.  After 
a  moment  of  hesitation  she  came  and  stood 
close  beside  me. 

"  I  do  not  want  any  one  to  hear,"  she  al 
most  whispered.  "  Come  with  me." 

She  was  dressed  to  go  out,  and  without  a 
remonstrance  I  followed  her  through  the 
hall  to  the  gravel  walk  before  the  house. 
It  was  a  raw,  cold  March  day,  and  the 
black  branches  writhed  under  a  strong  wind 
against  a  heavy,  slaty  sky. 

"  Come,"  she  commanded. 

I  followed  her  to  the  street. 

"  I  can  tell  you  better  here,"  she  said. 
"We  shall  be  alone  and  not  alone." 


"A    MAD   WORLD,   MY    MASTERS"          9* 

I  did  not  understand  her. 

"  You  did  me  the  honor  to  ask  me  to  be 
come  your  wife,"  she  continued.  "  I  con 
sent." 

"I  think,"  I  replied,  "that  it  will  not  be 
necessary  for  me  to  express  my  gratifica 
tion.  I  must  say,  however,  that  I  believe 
that  you  have  decided  for  the  best." 

Still,  she  did  not  pause  or  offer  to  turn 
around.  I  could  not  understand  why  so  sim 
ple  an  announcement  should  be  made  in  so 
melodramatic  a  manner,  and,  impatient  to 
return  to  my  work,  I  suggested  that,  as  the 
day  was  so  unpleasant,  it  might  be  wise  to 
defer  our  walk  until  another  time. 

"  I  have  not  told  you  all,"  she  answered, 
with  a  strange  mingling  of  terror  and  de 
spair.  "  Cannot  you  spare  me  a  few  mo 
ments  of  your  valuable  time  ?" 

I  told  her  that  I  was  very  much  occupied, 
but  if  she  had  anything  really  of  impor 
tance  to  tell  me,  I  could  listen  to  her  with 
out  any  very  great  inconvenience. 

"  I  think  the  subject  is  one  to  which  you 
will  be  willing  to  give  your  attention,"  she 
answered,  contemptuously,  "  I  wish  to  speak 
of  money." 


Q2          "  A    MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS  " 

"  Ah  !"  I  exclaimed,  delighted  to  find  her 
so  rational.  "  This  is  indeed  a  pleasant 
surprise.  I  cannot,  at  the  moment,  give  you 
all  the  detailed  information  that  you  would 
undoubtedly  wish  in  regard  to  my  fortune  ; 
but  I  will  at  once  have  an  exact  statement 
drawn  up  and  laid  before  you— 

"  No,"  she  cried,  the  growing  scorn  in  her 
voice  displacing  the  last  trace  of  fear.  "You 
cannot  understand  me.  How  could  I  ex 
pect  that  you  would  ?  I  wish  you  to  do 
something  for  me  —  something  unusual — 
something — "  she  paused.  "  I  wish  you  to 
give  me  some  money." 

"Why?"  I  asked,  with  a  calmness  that 
I  felt  must  have  some  effect,  excited  as 
she  was. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  In  a  money  transaction — "  I  began. 

"  If  you  trust  me  to  the  extent  of  asking 
me  to  become  your  wife,  cannot  you  trust 
me  in  this  ?" 

"  It  may  be  for  the  very  reason  that  you 
are  to  become  my  wife  that  I  now  wish  to 
know." 

I   saw  that  the   reasonableness   of  this 


93 

made  some  impression  on  her.  She  walked 
for  a  few  moments  without  speaking,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  wet  and  shining  pave 
ment,  for  the  rain  had  begun  to  fall  in  fine 
particles  which  the  wind  blew  coldly  in  our 
faces. 

"  Suppose  that  there  are  reasons — "  she 
began,  hesitatingly,  "reasons  involving  oth 
ers,  that  make  it  inexpedient,  impossible 
even,  for  me  to  speak." 

"  I  cannot  think,"  I  answered,  "  that  I 
should  be  acting  judiciously  in  giving  you, 
an  inexperienced  girl,  money  without  know 
ing  what  you  intend  to  do  with  it." 

"  If  you  do  not  give  it  to  me — only  twelve 
hundred  dollars,"  she  said,  with  sudden 
fierceness,  "  I  withdraw  my  promise." 

"  Is  this  wise  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  must  have  the  money,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Give  it  to  me.  How  can  you  care  for  me 
enough  to  marry  me  if  you  are  willing  to  see 
me  suffer  ?" 

"  This  is  irrelevant,"  I  answered. 

"  Must  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Would  not  that  be  the  simpler  and  wiser 
way  ?" 


"  If  I  must  do  it — "  she  began,  and  then 
breaking  off.  "  You  are  a  man  of  honor — " 

"  I  believe  I  may  say,"  I  corrected  her, 
"  that  I  am  a  man  of  sense." 

"  You  are  a  wise  man — a  great  one,  some 
say — you  will  see  that  what  I  tell  you  must 
be  kept  a  secret.  I  want  it  for  my  brother. 
He  has  been  led  away — he  has  been  weak 
— he  has,"  she  said,  coming  closer  to  me, 
"  forged !" 

In  the  street  as  we  were,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"  And  you  wish  this  money  in  order  that 
the  crime  may  be  condoned  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  it  would  be  far 
better  if  the  law  were  allowed  to  take  its 
course  ?  He — " 

"  It  would  kill  my  father." 

"  Undoubtedly  such  a  disgraceful  affair 
must  cause  much  pain,  but,  after  all,  would 
it  not  be  best  that  he  should  be  placed 
where  he  can  do  no  further  harm  ?" 

"  Save  him  this  once,"  she  cried,  "  and 
you  will  save  him  forever." 

"  Possibly,"  I  answered,  "  possibly." 


"A    MAD   WORLD,   MY   MASTERS"  95 

"  Give  me  the  money,"  she  said,  with 
an  intensity  of  which  I  did  not  think  her 
capable.  "It  is  a  matter  of  bargain  and 
sale.  I  will  have  my  price." 

I  consented.  I  may  have  done  wrong, 
but  I  consented. 

That  the  end  justifies  the  means,  is  one  of 
the  soundest  deductions  of  perfect  wisdom. 
In  its  deep  import  it  far  exceeds  in  value 
any  other  sentence  in  which  the  world  has 
summed  up  its  experiences.  If  I  have  made 
an  error  in  judgment  it  will  be  the  first,  and 
indeed  if  I  have  I  possess  this  consolation  : 
I  have  been  led  to  it  by  no  unworthy  influ 
ence.  I  have  done  as  I  have  because  it  has 
seemed  to  me  most  judicious. 

April  5,  189-. 

Since  Edith  has  promised  to  become  my 
wife  I  have  noticed  a  change  in  her  man 
ner  to  me.  She  still  treats  me  with  what 
appears  to  be  utter  loathing,  but  neverthe 
less  with  a  certain  painful  deference.  She 
is  silent,  listless,  sad.  She  speaks  as  if  she 
were  repeating  a  lesson,  and  will  hardly  for 
an  instant  look  at  me.  Our  engagement  is 


96  "A   MAD    WORLD,  MY    MASTERS" 

not  yet  announced,  but  it  will  be  in  a  day 
or  two.  I  am  glad  that  all  has  come  out  so 
satisfactorily.  If  the  world  would  be  guided 
by  the  commonest  of  common  sense  how 
different  life  would  be. 

April  7,  189-. 

On  the  whole,  I  do  not  know  whether  to 
be  glad  or  sorry  that  a  mind  of  such  an  un 
common  order  has  been  given  to  me.  I  do 
not  know  whether  to  be  thankful  or  regret 
ful  that  the  sequential  action  of  natural 
forces  has  given  me  abilities  of  such  a  kind 
as  to  remove  me  even  from  all  sympathy 
with  my  fellow-men. 

I  seem  possessed  of  the  limitless  intelli 
gence  that  apprehends  all  —  of  the  calm, 
pure  reason  that  permits  no  stain  of  doubt 
— the  utter  consummation  and  perfection  of 
intellectual  power.  I  feel  as  the  keeper  of 
a  mad-house  must  often  feel.  Like  him  I 
must  always  be  on  my  guard,  lest  I  forget 
the  afflictions  of  others  and  lose  my  temper 
at  their  unreasonableness.  I  must  manage, 
cajole,  and  deceive. 

I  am  weary. 

Sustain  me,  divine  reason — that  reason 


"A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS"          97 

that  dwelt  in  the  brain  of  Plato  and,  in 
other  mode,  guided  the  understanding  of 
his  great  opposite,  Aristotle  ;  that  reason 
that  fled  the  madman  of  Macedonia  at  the 
temple  in  the  Egyptian  sands,  but  accom 
panied  that  sanest  of  men,  the  Roman  con 
queror,  from  the  Rhone  to  the  Tagus ;  that 
reason  that  remained  with  Socrates  even 
in  his  last  hour,  but  in  later  time  deserted 
the  arch-cynic  of  Ferney  at  the  supreme 
moment ;  that  inexplicable  power  that  led 
Kepler  to  his  mighty  laws  and  Newton  to 
his  grandest  truth,  and  in  our  own  day 
stirred  the  systematizing  intellect  of  Dar 
win  ;  that  element  in  the  gray  matter  of 
the  brain  that  drove  the  steam  through  the 
throbbing  piston,  that  set  the  first  type  side 
by  side  beneath  the  groaning  press,  that 
sent  electricity  along  the  trembling  wire ; 
that  ineffable  quality  that  brings  order  out 
of  chaos,  and  points  the  way  through  the  wil 
dernesses  of  sophistication — divine  reason, 
may  your  saving  grace  ever  remain  with  me, 
and  may  I  always  be  blessed  with  your  sus 
taining  presence.  Keep  and  protect  me 
from  all  noxious  influences,  but  chiefly  pro- 
7 


QS          "A   MAD   WORLD,  MY   MASTERS" 

tect  me  from  myself,  lest  in  some  moment 
of  weakness  I  forget  your  wondrous  name 
and  go  hopelessly  astray. 

April  ii,  189-. 

I  have  just  had  a  terrible  interview  with 
Edward.  His  madness,  which  has  hitherto 
been  apparently  harmless,  has  assumed  a 
new  and  violent  aspect.  I  am  much  dis 
turbed  by  this  new  development  and  hardly 
know  what  to  do. 

The  immediate  cause  of  Edward's  excite 
ment  was  the  announcement  of  my  engage 
ment  to  Edith.  He  came  to  me  as  I  sat 
in  the  library,  and  demanded  in  agitated 
tones  if  what  he  had  heard  was  true. 

I  told  him  briefly  and  calmly  that  it  was. 

"  It  is  not  her  fault,"  he  exclaimed;  "they 
have  forced  her  to  it.  I  have  not  been 
allowed  to  see  her  for  days.  They  have 
driven  her  into  this  hateful  bargain." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  answered,  "  all  has 
been  done  with  her  full  consent ;  indeed,  at 
her  own  request.  You  will  soon  see,  I  hope, 
that  everything  is  better  as  it  is.  You  are 
very  poor.  I  am  very  rich.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  as  to  the  wisdom  of  her  choice." 


"A    MAD   WORLD,   MY   MASTERS"          99 

He  replied  wildly,  in  furious,  almost  inco 
herent  words.  I  waited  patiently  until  he 
paused. 

"I  can,  of  course,"  I  said,  "understand 
that  you  think  that  you  have  suffered  an  in 
jury  in  being  deprived  of  Edith.  I  should 
be  willing  to  make  up  to  you  in  any  way 
I  can  your  loss.  What — " 

I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  person  so 
completely  submerged  in  the  tumultuous 
floods  of  unrestrained  passion.  He  would 
not  listen  to  me.  In  action  and  in  word  he 
was  indeed  a  maniac. 

I  feared  even  for  my  personal  safety. 

"  Stop !"  he  cried,  "  this  is  too  much.  I 
have  endured  your  insults  long  enough.  I 
have  suffered  long  enough  through  your  cold 
and  supercilious  nature.  I  know  what  acts 
you  are  willing  to  commit  in  the  name  of  rea 
son.  I  have  heard  your  cant.  I  know  your 
calculating  selfishness,  your  stolid  cruelty, 
your  unbounded  meanness.  I  know  your 
heart,  untouched  by  humanizing  sympathy — 
incapable  of  love,  unequal  even  to  hate.  I 
know  you.  I  know  you  as  you  really  are.  I 
will  do  all  that  I  can  to  prevent  this  mar 
riage." 


100        "  A    MAD    WORLD,   MY    MASTERS 

I  grieve  for  him.  It  distresses  me  to 
see  so  fine  an  organism  as  the  human 
mind  so  thoroughly  ruined. 

April  13,  189-. 

I  have  determined  what  to  do.  I  have 
sent  for  a  celebrated  physician — a  special 
ist,  an  alienist — who  will  give  his  opinion 
about  Edward  and  tell  me  whether  it  is 
quite  safe  to  allow  him  such  absolute  liberty. 

April  15,  189-. 

To-night  Dr.  Varley  dined  with  Edward 
and  myself.  I  thought  that  during  the  din 
ner  the  physician  would  have  an  opportu 
nity  of  studying  my  brother's  case.  It  is 
best  that  Edward  should  not  know  that  he 
is  the  object  of  our  solicitude,  for  that  would 
only  excite  him  the  more.  The  talk  this 
evening,  as  I  expected,  was  unrestrained, 
and  the  doctor  had  every  opportunity  of 
noting  Edward's  mental  failings.  My  broth 
er  was  as  extravagant  and  irrational  as  he 
always  is,  and  what  he  said  presented  a 
strange  contrast  to  my  simple,  logical  dis 
course. 

I  saw  Dr.  Varley  glance  from  one  to  the 


"  A    MAD    WORLD,   MY    MASTERS  I°I 

other  of  us  with  evident  and  constantly 
growing  interest.  In  the  course  of  the 
evening  I  drew  him  aside  and  asked  him 
what  conclusion  he  had  reached. 

"  This  recent  trouble,"  he  answered,  hes 
itatingly,  "  of  which  you  tell  me  has  cer 
tainly  had  its  effect  upon  him." 

He  glanced  sharply  at  me.  That  he 
wished  to  spare  my  feelings  and  withhold 
his  opinion  until  he  had  further  opportu 
nity  for  examination  was  evident. 

April  1 6,  189-. 

How  can  I  write  what  has  happened  ? 
My  hand  trembles  so  violently  that  I  can 
hardly  hold  my  pen.  Just  now  Edward 
desired  to  see  me.  I  received  him  as 
usual  in  the  library.  His  voice  when  he 
first  spoke  was  hoarse  with  passion,  and 
I  could  with  difficulty  understand  what  he 
said. 

"  At  last  I  know  the  truth,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  It  came  to  me  after  our  last  meeting,  and 
since  then  suspicion  has  changed  to  assur 
ance.  I  should  pity  you,  but  I  cannot.  I 
have  only  remained  in  your  house  to  watch 


102         "  A    MAD   WORLD,   MY    MASTERS  " 

over  her,  over  you  —  to  save  her,  to  save 
you.  Give  her  up,  and  I  will  be  silent. 
Keep  to  your  purpose,  and  I  will  denounce 
you  to  this  man  whom  you  yourself  have 
brought  here  and  who  seems  blindly  igno 
rant  of — " 

He  must  in  his  raving  madness  have  at 
tacked  me,  for  the  next  thing  that  I  remem 
ber  was  seeing  him  lying  on  the  floor  pale 
and  still,  with  the  blood  trickling  from  a 
wound  in  his  head.  In  defending  myself 
I  must  have  unconsciously  done  him  some 
injury. 

I  hurriedly  summoned  the  servants,  and 
saying  that  Mr.  Edward  had  met  with  an 
accident,  sent  one  of  them  for  Dr.  Varley. 

The  physician  is  now  with  him. 

Strange — strange  and  sad  that  the  swift, 
strong,  sure  action  of  the  brain  should  ever 
be  so  weakened.  Pitiful  that  this  wonder 
ful  mechanism  should  ever  go  so  wofully 
awry  and,  as  in  the  breaking  of  powerful 
machinery,  work  death  and  destruction. 

It  is  a  warm  spring  evening.  My  win 
dow  is  open.  I  hear  people  on  the  veran 
da.  They  are  talking.  What  do  they  say  ? 


IO3 

How  strangely  sensitive  to  sound  I  am. 
Their  voices,  distant  as  they  are,  come  to 
me  with  great  distinctness. 

They  have  moved,  and  I  can  hear  even 
more  clearly. 

Some  one  says  that  Edward  is  not  seri 
ously  hurt. 

Now  they  say — what  ?  That  I  attacked 
my  brother  and  sought  to  kill  him — that  I 
am  the  madman,  and — 

[This  journal  having  come  into  my  pos 
session,  I  have  thought  that  I  might  vent 
ure  to  publish  portions  of  it.  It  is  very 
long.  As  there  is  much  in  it  that  does 
not  bear  upon  the  history  of  these  three 
lives  I  have  omitted  many  things,  but  I 
think  I  have  retained  enough — absolutely 
unaltered — to  maintain  a  consecutive  nar 
rative. — ED.] 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

" — that  affable  familiar  ghost." 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  Ixxxvi. 

"And  you  have  all  that  any  one  could 
wish,"  said  the  guest  after  a  dinner  that 
could  only  become  a  memory  and  never  an 
indigestion. 

"  Possibly,"  murmured  the  host,  mourn 
fully.  "  Possibly." 

"  You  should  be  the  happiest  man  on 
earth,"  continued  the  guest. 

"  Ah !"  sighed  Mr.  Chisholm,  the  host, 
looking  his  friend  sadly  in  the  face.  "You 
little  know  the  trials  of  a  man  to  whom 
money  is  no  object  at  all." 

"  No,"  admitted  his  companion.  "  I  do 
not.  I  would  willingly,  I  think,  undergo 
them.  The  amount  of  moral  discipline  to 
be  derived  therefrom  must  be  very  great. 
They  must  be  irksome,  but  improving." 


loS  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

"  You  do  not  approach  appreciation  of 
my  meaning,"  answered  Mr.  Chisholm,  dis 
mally.  "  With  only  your  millions  you  can 
still  be  a  comparatively  contented  man. 
But  pause — beware." 

"  You  alarm  me." 

"Do  not  let  them  increase.  You  can 
still  long  for  something  that  money  can 
buy,  and  hope  in  time  to  call  it  yours.  I 
cannot.  With  my  absolutely  unlimited 
means  there  is  nothing  purchasable  that 
I  cannot  obtain.  Man,  however,  is  so  made 
that  he  must  always  wish  for  something 
more.  I  can  only  wish  for  what  money 
can  never  bring  me,  and  therefore  my  case 
is  hopeless." 

"  It  is  very  sad,"  said  the  friend. 

"  If  I  can't  talk  freely  to  you — my  oldest 
friend — a  friend  as  long  ago  as  when  gold 
was  over  two  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  Mr. 
Chisholm,  impulsively,  "  I  can't  to  any 
one.  My  trouble  is  largely  of  a  family 
nature." 

"  Indeed,"  responded  the  friend  in  a 
tone  that  could  readily  melt  into  one  of 
deep  commiseration,  but  would  not  be  en- 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  109 

tirely  inconsistent  with  one  of  genial  de 
preciation. 

"  I  have  apparently  everything  that  the 
heart  of  man  can  desire."  Mr.  Chisholm 
glanced  across  the  broad  terrace,  down  the 
smooth-coated  lawns,  to  the  river,  where 
the  dark  outline  of  his  trim  steam-yacht 
stood  sharply  against  the  broad  waters 
purpling  beneath  a  sunset  sky.  "  But  I 
am  wretched.  All  is  spoiled  for  me  by 
one  miserable  fact." 

"  Yes,"  softly  murmured  the  guest. 

"  I  have  no  false  pride  and  no  false 
shame.  I  know  that  an  American  is  only 
a  person  who  has  forgotten  that  he  is  some 
thing  else.  I  know  that  as  an  American  I 
am  no  more  expected  to  have  a  pedigree 
than  a  Spanish  grandee  is  necessarily  ex 
pected  to  have  a  fortune.  I  am  troubled 
purely  on  aesthetic  grounds.  I  miss  above 
all  those  appurtenances  that  are  only  to 
be  had  in  any  real  perfection  by  inheri 
tance.  Mine  is  no  vulgar  discontent."  He 
paused  for  a  moment.  "  I  have  the  finest 
place  in  the  country.  But  there  is  no 
mystery,  no  suggestion  about  it.  It  is 


no  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

new.  It  is  crude  as  a  fact  and  down 
right  as  a  dollar.  I  saw  the  first  stone 
of  the  foundation  laid  and  the  last  Bougue- 
reau  hung.  Everything  about  me  is  new. 
I  myself  am  also  new.  I've  too  much  the 
crudity  and  crispness  of  a  fresh  greenback. 
I  am  unable  to  escape  from  it.  I  seem 
condemned  to  a  world  where  everything 
is  freshly  polished  and  there  are  no  cor 
ners  off.  I  have  bought  several  baronial 
halls  in  England,  three  or  four  chateaux  in 
France — all  places  where  I  need  not  have 
feared  to  find  the  varnish  sticky.  But  it 
was  no  use.  I  couldn't  stand  the  contrast. 
I  did  not  correlate,  so  to  speak,  with  the 
Van  Dyck  portraits,  and  was  utterly  thrown 
into  the  background  by  a  crusader's  armor. 
I  had  at  last  to  give  up.  It  is  extremely 
unpleasant  for  a  man  to  feel  himself  put 
down  at  his  own  fireside  by  a  piece  of  his 
own  furniture." 

"  Excessively  disagreeable,  I  should  im 
agine,"  said  the  friend. 

"  And  so  I  always  come  back  here,  where 
there  isn't  even  a  candle-snuffer  to  humili 
ate  me." 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY 

"  The  finest  modern  villa  residence  in 
the  world." 

"  There  it  is  again,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm, 
in  despair.  "Villa  residence!  It  might  be 
a  stucco  house  with  a  tin  fountain  in  the 
front  yard.  Villa  residence  !  I'll  burn  it 
to-morrow." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  guest,  anx 
iously,  "restrain  yourself.  You  are  ex 
cited." 

"Who  wouldn't  be  excited?  All  has 
been  done  that  money  can  do,  and  the 
thing's  a  failure.  I  haven't  even  a  haunted 
room  in  it." 

"  A  haunted  room,"  repeated  the  friend, 
slowly.  "You  think  that  you  would  be 
satisfied  with  a  haunted  room  ?" 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  answered  Mr.  Chis 
holm,  "that  I  could  get  on  with  that.  It 
would  be  extremely  grateful  to  me  to  have 
ghostly  footfalls  on  the  terrace  and  hollow 
groans  on  the  front  stairs,  but  I  could  be 
happy  if  I  only  had  a  haunted  room." 

"  It  might,"  said  the  friend,  blowing  a 
cloud  of  cigar  smoke  into  what  seemed  to 
Mr.  Chisholm's  excited  imagination  a  toler- 


ii2  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

ably  accurate  representation  of  a  trunkless 
head  with  snaky  locks,  -;it  might  perhaps 
be  managed." 

"  No,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Chisholm  in  awed 
surprise. 

"  I  think  that  really  it  might  be  ar 
ranged." 

"  Do  that,"  cried  the  host,  bringing  his 
closed  hand  down  on  the  table  with  a  bang 
that  made  the  gold  service  rattle,  "  and  I'll 
never  forget  it." 

"  I  should  not  be  in  the  least  surprised," 
answered  the  friend.  "  One  can  never  tell 
what  may  come  of  introducing  a  ghost  into 
the  house." 

"  Do  not  trifle  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Chis 
holm,  with  deep  feeling.  "  If  you  do  not 
really  think  that  it  can  be  done,  tell  me  at 
once.  Do  not  keep  me  in  suspense." 

"  But—" 

"  Do  not  think  of  the  cost,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Chisholm,  excitedly.  "  In  a  matter  of 
this  importance  the  expense  should  not  be 
considered.  Besides,  a  ghost  is  a  fancy 
article  and  should  command  a  fancy  price." 

"  It  isn't  so  much,"  responded  the  friend, 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  113 

"  the  cost  of  the  original  article  as  the  duty 
that  makes  them  so  high.  It  has  always 
been  the  policy  of  our  government  to  pro 
tect  and  encourage  the  production  of  native 
ghosts,  but  hitherto  such  endeavors  have 
met  with  very  slight  success.  There  have 
been  a  few  produced  in  New  England — 
witches  and  the  like — and  the  negroes  in 
the  South  have  some  crude,  savage,  clumsy 
apparitions ,  but  that  is  all.  It  is  a  fatal 
mistake.  The  American  people  will  never 
be  able  to  turn  out  really  good,  original 
ghosts  until  there  is  a  popular  demand,  and 
the  only  way  to  create  that  demand  is  to 
educate  the  popular  taste  by  the  importa 
tion  of  really  excellent  examples.  Take  off 
the  duty  on  ghosts,  I  say,  and  in  a  few 
years  the  American-made  spectre  can  chal 
lenge  any  world." 

"I'll  send  to  Europe  for  a  ghost  imme 
diately,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Chisholm. 

"  You  need  hardly  go  to  that  trouble," 
answered  the  friend,  reflectively.  "  I  know 
a  man  who  keeps  a  little  shop  downtown 
and  imports  a  low  class  of  ghosts.  Per 
haps  he  might  have  something  really  good. 


H4  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

At  least  it  would  be  worth  your  while  to 
try  him." 

"Why  doesn't  he  bring  over  the  best 
quality  ?" 

"  There  is  absolutely  no  call  for  the  best. 
The  most  of  his  customers  are  mediums, 
and  they  are  satisfied  with  a  very  poor  line 
of  goods." 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  a  responsible  party 
— could  be  trusted  not  to  put  you  off  with 
a  modern  imitation  ?'' 

"  I  have  always  understood  that  he  was  a 
very  worthy  and  respectable  person.  His 
father  was  in  the  business  before  him,  and 
I  myself  have  had  some  dealings  with  the 
son  that  gave  me  perfect  satisfaction.  I  am 
sure  that  he  could  get  you  a  nice,  respect 
able  family  ghost  on  comparatively  easy 
terms.  He  keeps  an  agent  in  Europe,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  he  often  picks  up  a 
good  thing  very  cheap." 

"  Where  does  most  of  his  stock  come 
from  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  it  is  largely  gathered  on 
the  Continent.  The  old  families  are  break 
ing  up,  sales  occurring  every  day,  and  I 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  us 

understand  that  a  good  judge  of  the  article 
— a  man  that  knows  a  ghost  when  he  sees 
one — can  sometimes  get  surprisingly  good 
bargains.  Latterly  some  English  ghosts 
have  come  into  the  market,  but  they  are 
rare  as  yet." 

"  I  should  want  the  very  best." 

"  Then  I  unhesitatingly  advise  you  to 
get  an  English  one.  There  is  nothing  like 
an  English  ghost  for  quality  and  design." 

"  I  hope,"  continued  Mr.  Chisholm,  anx 
iously,  "  that  there  will  be  no  failure.  It  is 
rather  important  for  me  to  have  the  blue- 
room  haunted  just  now.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

He  drew  his  chair  closer  to  his  compan 
ion  and  coughed  slightly. 

"  You  know,"  he  began,  "  that  when  we 
were  on  the  other  side  there  was  a  young 
Englishman — the  Duke  of  Westendington — 
rather  attentive  to  my  girl.  It  was  all  in 
the  newspapers,  and  you  must  have  seen  it. 
Well,  he's  coming  over  here  to  get  my  con 
sent  to  marry  her." 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  the  friend. 

"On  the  whole  I  suppose  you  may  do 


Il6  «  GUILTY   SIR   GUY  " 

that,"  answered  Mr.  Chisholm.  "  But  I 
have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  this 
matter.  I  supposed  at  first  that  all  dukes 
were  alike,  but  I  soon  found  out  my  mis 
take.  They  vary.  They  vary  just  as  much 
as  other  things.  One  duke  may  be  very  in 
significant  in  comparison  with  another.  It 
is  very  hard  for  a  stranger  to  distinguish 
these  nice  shades  of  difference.  Finally, 
however,  I  hit  upon  a  way  of  setting  all 
doubt  at  rest." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  friend,  with  interest. 

"  We  met  a  duke  as  soon  as  we  got  over 
there,  but  I  was  suspicious  of  him  from  the 
first.  He  might  be  all  right  and  again  he 
mightn't.  There  was  no  sort  of  certainty 
about  it." 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  him  ?"  asked 
the  friend. 

"  I  learned  that  his  character  was  univer 
sally  respected,  and  that  his  reputation  was 
absolutely  unimpeachable.  I  was  very  much 
disappointed,  for  I  liked  the  young  fellow 
exceedingly.  But  I  had  to  let  him  go." 

"Why?" 

"  I  couldn't   be   sure   of  him.     I  didn't 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  117 

know  just  what  his  standing  might  be.  You 
see  he  had  never  asserted  himself.  A  duke 
of  irreproachable  life  and  with  an  unstained 
reputation  was  something  to  look  upon  with 
suspicion.  Why,  my  dear  friend,  he  might 
have  been  afraid  to  be  anything  else.  Sim 
eon  Chisholm  was  too  sharp  to  be  fooled 
that  way.  I  gave  him  up.  I  was  at  first 
discouraged,  but  quickly  I  was  given  new 
hope.  I  came  upon  Westendington.  He 
was  everything  that  I  could  possibly  desire. 
None  but  the  real  thing  could  have  gone 
through  what  he  had  and  kept  out  of  Port 
land.  I  made  the  most  particular  inquiries. 
I  was  charmed  with  all  that  I  learned.  He 
was  conceded  on  all  sides  to  be  the  most 
consummate  blackguard  that  the  peerage 
had  ever  produced.  He  had  repeatedly 
been  discovered  cheating  at  cards — he  had 
hocussed  a  race-horse  —  had  brought  about 
three  divorces — had  been  horsewhipped  at 
least  a  dozen  times.  I  took  him  to  my 
arms  at  once." 

""Of  course  you  will  give  your  consent?" 
"  Why,  certainly.     It  wouldn't  do  to  miss 
such  a  chance  as  that." 


118  "  GUILTY    SIR    GUY" 

"  But—" 

"True,"  answered  Mr.  Chisholm.  "I 
haven't  told  you  why  I  want  the  ghost 
Well,  when  I  was  in  England  he  asked  us 
down,  with  a  lot  of  other  people,  to  Fevers- 
leigh  Castle,  and  a  fine  old  place  I  under 
stand  it  is.  I  didn't  go.  I  should  have 
stood  out  like  a  restoration.  I  believe  that 
he  has  a  very  fine  and  mysterious  ghost 
there.  I  didn't  ask  him  about  it,  though  I 
should  have  liked  to  do  so.  I  felt  a  cer 
tain  delicacy  about  intruding  upon  family 
matters.  Now  he  is  coming  here,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  behind  in  anything.  As 
it  is,  I  confess  I  am  distressed,  humiliated. 
I  haven't  even  a  dog  that  howls  a  warning, 
or  a  raven  to  croak  calamity." 

"  It  is  awkward,"  admitted  the  friend. 

Mr.  Chisholm  took  a  sip  of  the  wine 
bought  from  a  semi-royal  family  at  a  wholly 
royal  price,  and  glanced  at  the  scene  of  cul 
tivated  loveliness  that  lay  before  him. 

"We'll  see  about  this  matter  to-morrow." 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  the  next 
morning  when  Mr.  Chisholm  and  his  friend 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  119 

turned  out  of  the  great  thoroughfare,  where 
the  traffic  of  the  city  flowed  steadily  and  tu- 
multuously  along,  into  a  quiet  and  seclud 
ed  court.  The  atmosphere — which  would 
have,  perhaps,  been  invigorating  in  the  trop 
ics  or  the  stoke-hole  of  an  ocean-steamer — 
suddenly  became  cool  in  the  shadow  of  tall 
buildings,  and  the  din  was  stilled  to  a  low 
murmur. 

"  I  should  not  think,"  remarked  Mr.  Chis- 
holm,  "that  this  was  exactly  the  place  for  a 
lively  business." 

"  Well, you  see,"  answered  his  friend, "  the 
business  is  not  exactly  what  you  would  call 
lively.  I  have  advised  a  place  farther  up 
town,  with  a  ghost  against  a  black  velvet 
background  in  each  plate -glass  window 
wringing  its  hands  or  tearing  its  shroud. 
That  would  attract  attention.  However, 
this  man  seems  only  to  take  a  sort  of  virtu 
oso-like  interest,  and  does  not  care  for  the 
worry  and  anxiety  of  anything  so  exten 
sive." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  answered  Mr.  Chis- 
holm ;  "with  a  little  capital  and  'go  '  it  might, 
I  imagine,  be  made  a  very  good  thing." 


120  "  GUILTY   SIR   GUY  " 

"  I  have  always  thought*  so  myself.  Why, 
only  a  little  thing  that  I  suggested  the  other 
day,  if  skilfully  worked,  might  bring  a  mint 
of  money.  The  trade  is  always  longing  for 
new  ways  to  advertise.  What  could  be  bet 
ter  than  to  start  out  a  procession  of  ghosts 
through  the  streets  to  deliver  little  papier- 
mache  tomb-stones,  with  a  taking  descrip 
tion  printed  on  them  of  the  goods  to  be 
puffed  ?  Or  a  very  neat  thing  might  be 
got  up  in  imitation  coffin-plates." 

"  '  Bogle,'  "  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  pointing  to 
a  sign  over  a  shop-door ;  "  that  must  be 
the  place.  Yes,  '  Andrew  Bogle,  Importer 
and  Dealer  in  Foreign  and  Domestic  Spir 
its.'  " 

It  was  a  dark  little  shop  between  two 
huge  warehouses,  and  the  green  mould  and 
crumbling  brick  showed  that  the  sun  rarely 
had  a  chance  at  it.  Glancing  in  at  the 
dirty,  narrow-paned  window,  Mr.  Chisholm 
beheld  some  broken  looking-glasses,  a  pile 
of  chains,  and  a  large  old  hall-clock. 

"  Something  supernatural  about  every  one 
of  them,"  whispered  the  friend. 

As  they  approached  the  door  they  felt 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  121 

the  deadly  oppression  of  the  miasmatic  and 
stifling  air,  broken  only  now  and  then  by 
sudden  ice-cold  draughts  that  chilled  the 
marrow  in  their  bones.  Entering  the  shop, 
Mr.  Chisholm  noticed  on  one  side  of  the 
narrow  threshold  a  heavy  beam  with  a  hook 
in  it,  and  on  the  other  a  curiously  marked 
plank.  He  determined  to  ask  their  use. 
The  room  was  low,  dark,  and  dingy,  but  the 
man  who  stood  behind  the  counter  appeared 
a  perfect  picture  of  bright,  smiling,  content 
ed  jollity. 

"  Is  that  the  person  ?"  asked  Mr.  Chis 
holm,  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  friend. 

"  Do  you  really  think  he  is  quite  to  be 
trusted  ?  I  don't  see  the  shadow  of  any 
mystery,  any  sickly  wanness,  even  any  dead 
ly  flickering  of  the  eye." 

"  A  man  must  have  a  strong  constitution 
or  he  would  break  down  in  this  business," 
said  the  friend. 

"Bless  my  soul !"  cried  Mr.  Chisholm,  in 
great  astonishment.  "  Why  ?" 

"  He  has  to  live  so  largely  with  ghosts — 
a  most  confined  life — and  then  the  night- 


i22  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

work  is  very  hard.  Ghosts,  on  the  whole, 
prefer  the  most  unhealthy  places,  and  the 
conditions  under  which  it  is  often  necessary 
to  keep  them  undermine  the  strongest  sys 
tems.  One  must  be  beyond  all  malarial 
influence  or  else  one  cannot  with  safety 
take  proper  care  of  the  spectres  that  haunt 
donjon  keeps,  willow-walks,  and  the  like. 
One  must  be  able  to  bear  the  close,  impure 
air  of  unopened  rooms  such  as  is  necessary 
for  the  proper  preservation  of  ghosts  that 
affect  secret  chambers,  vaults,  and  tombs. 
If  you  will  look  at  this  man  closely  you 
will  see  that  the  insalubrious  nature  of  his 
employment  has  already  begun  to  tell  upon 
him." 

"  It  is  then  absolutely  necessary  to  pre 
serve  ghosts  in  their  own  atmospheres  ?" 

"  Absolutely.  If  it  were  otherwise  they 
would  become  so  hale,  hearty,  and  substan 
tial  that  no  one  would  look  at  them  at  any 
price.  The  sanitary  arrangements  always 
have  to  be  very  imperfect." 

During  this  conversation,  which  had  been 
carefully  carried  on  in  a  low  tone,  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  establishment  stood  smiling 
and  rubbing:  his  hands. 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  123 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  a  jovial 
voice,  "what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"  Mr.  Chisholm —  began  the  friend. 
"  By  the  way,  you  remember  me  ?" 

"Perfectly,  sir,  perfectly,"  answered  the 
shopman.  "  You  bought,  about  two  months 
ago,  a  spectral  hound  for  your  country-place, 
to  scare  away  the  tramps.  I  sincerely  hope 
that  it  gives  satisfaction." 

"  It  worked  perfectly  at  first,  but  I  am 
afraid  that  they  are  getting  rather  too  ac 
customed  to  it." 

"  I've  heard  the  same  complaint  from 
other  parties,"  answered  the  man,  "  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  you  a  liberal 
allowance  for  the  hound,  and  let  you  have 
one  of  our  headless  horsemen,  of  which  we 
sell  a  great  many  to  people  going  into  the 
city  in  the  winter,  or  leaving  their  coun 
try-places  in  the  summer  to  go  to  Europe. 
They  have  been  found  most  efficacious." 

"  I'll  think  about  it  and  let  you  know,  but 
I've  brought  a  friend  who  wants  a  quiet 
family  ghost  for  himself.  I  told  him  that 
you  would  be  sure  to  have  just  the  thing." 

"  I    flatter   myself,"    replied    the   dealer, 


124  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

with  some  severity,  "  that  the  establish 
ment  is  too  well  known  to  require  any  puff 
ing  on  my  part.  We  can  furnish  anything, 
from  a  brownie  to  amuse  the  children  to  a 
cavalcade  of  mediaeval  knights  for  the  in 
struction  of  the  adult — all  warranted  and 
the  best  in  the  market." 

"  Mr.  Chisholm  is  furnishing  a  new  house, 
and  wishes  a  ghost  for  the  blue-room." 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  the  man,  and  his  face 
shone  with  gratification.  "  Who  has  not 
heard  of  Mr.  Chisholm  !  This  is  indeed  a 
commission  that  gives  me  great  pleasure. 
What  you  wish  is  not  intended  strictly  for 
use.  You  desire  merely  an  ornament — a 
superfluous  but  aristocratic  appendage." 

"  Exactly,"  answered  Mr.  Chisholm. 

"  This  excites  the  artist  in  me,"  exclaimed 
the  shopman.  "  Is  your  house  of  any  par 
ticular  style  or  time  ?  I  would  not  like  to 
commit  an  anachronism." 

"  Composite  American,"  replied  Mr.  Chis 
holm. 

"  Then  we  are  quite  unrestricted." 

"  Absolutely." 

"  If    you   will   just   step   into    the    dark 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  125 

room,"  said  the  man,  "I  will  show  you 
some  choice  things." 

"Before  you  go,"  observed  Mr.  Chis- 
holm,  "  will  you  kindly  tell  me  what  these 
are  ?" 

He  pointed  to  the  beam  and  plank  by 
the  door. 

"This,"  answered  the  dealer,  running 
his  hand  affectionately  along  the  rough 
board,  "goes  with  a  ghost  that  I  can  show 
you.  This  is  the  beam  he  hung  himself  on, 
and  from  which  in  the  ghostly  state  he  ap 
pears  suspended.  The  effect  as  a  whole 
is  singularly  awful.  We  had  the  walls  torn 
down  and  the  rafter  brought  away." 

"Wouldn't  any  other  do  as  well?" 

"  We  try  to  be  accurate  in  the  slightest 
detail.  Now,  here  was  a  case  where  we 
tried  to  get  along  without  the  real  thing, 
but  it  would  not  work.  This,"  he  con 
tinued,  caressing  the  plank,  "belongs  to 
an  apparition  that  wails  over  a  blood-spot. 
You  see  the  spot  there.  When  the  ghost  was 
sent  over  they  thoughtlessly  omitted  to  pack 
up  the  blot  with  it.  The  consequence  was 
that  the  ghost  was  practically  useless.  We 


i26  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

tried  it  over  a  crushed -strawberry  stain, 
but  couldn't  get  a  wail  out  of  it.  We  were 
compelled  at  a  great  expense  to  procure 
the  original  spot.  His  Serene  Highness, 
the  former  owner — in  whose  family  the  spec 
tre  had  been  for  centuries  —  knew  that  he 
had  us  in  a  tight  place  and  put  up  the 
price." 

"Really,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  "this  is 
extremely  interesting." 

"  We  see  a  good  many  queer  things  in 
our  business,  as  you  may  imagine,"  said 
the  man.  "  But  will  you  just  step  this 
way  ?" 

He  opened  a  door  between  two  large 
safes,  one  of  which  was  marked  "CEtin- 
ger's  Essences,"  and  the  other  "Lucretius's 
Superficial  Films." 

Mr.  Chisholm  started  violently  as  a  large 
rocking-chair  that  stood  behind  the  counter 
began,  apparently  without  visible  cause,  to 
rock  violently. 

"  That,"  said  the  dealer,  noticing  the 
sudden  movement  on  the  part  of  his  cus 
tomer  and  following  the  direction  of  his 
gaze,  "  is  the  only  American  ghost  that  I 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  127 

have  in  stock.  It's  an  old  lady  who  rocked 
herself  to  death  in  colonial  Massachusetts. 
No  one  will  have  her  on  account  of  her  un 
pleasant  habit  of  predicting  the  direst  evils 
on  every  possible  occasion.  It  is  annoying 
and  even  alarming  when  you  are  not  accus 
tomed  to  her.  She  minds  the  shop  when  I 
step  out  for  a  minute,  and  lets  me  know 
if  a  customer  comes  in." 

Motioning  Mr.  Chisholtn  to  precede  him, 
the  shopman  held  open  the  door.  The 
two  customers  entered  a  low,  dimly-lighted 
hall  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  hanging  of 
dark  cloth  that  evidently  concealed  some 
opening.  They  had  not  taken  more  than 
two  or  three  steps  when  they  were  startled 
into  a  sudden  halt  by  a  slow  succession  of 
blood-curdling  groans.  Their  tongues  clave 
to  the  roofs  of  their  mouths,  and  their 
knees  trembled  under  them. 

"Pardon  me  a  moment,"  said  the  dealer, 
and  suddenly  disappeared. 

With  blanched  faces  Mr.  Chisholm  and 
his  friend  gazed  one  at  the  other.  The 
groans  were  not  repeated,  and  almost  im 
mediately  the  proprietor  of  the  place  stood 
beside  them. 


128  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

"  It's  only  that  old  idiot  from  Vampire 
Hall,"  said  the  man,  impatiently.  "  He's 
very  old  and  garrulous,  and  I  cannot  always 
restrain  him.  He  once  frightened  a  very  val 
uable  but  new  customer  into  a  convulsion." 

"Could  you  —  could  you,"  asked  Mr. 
Chisholm,  uneasily,  "  manage  not  to  leave 
us  again  ?  I  am  afraid  that  I  might  acci 
dentally  do  some  harm." 

"  Not  the  least  danger,  sir,"  answered 
the  man,  confidently.  "  Our  goods  are  not 
exactly  perishable.  Why,  you  walked  slap 
through  a  ghost  a  minute  ago  and  didn't 
know  it." 

Mr.  Chisholm  involuntarily  jumped. 

"  Will  you  step  in  here  and  take  a  seat  ?" 
continued  the  shopman,  drawing  back  the 
curtain,  and  pointing  into  a  large,  barren 
room. 

The  visitors  disposed  themselves  in  two 
stiff-backed  chairs,  and  their  conductor  sud 
denly  turned  out  the  single  gas-jet  that  had 
dimly  lit  the  place. 

"  What  did  you  do  that  for?"  asked  Mr. 
Chisholm,  sharply. 

"  You    couldn't    possibly   judge    of   the 


"  GUILTY   SIR    GUY  129 

goods  by  that  light.  Some  of  the  shades 
are  very  illusive." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  discontent 
edly. 

"  As  I  understand,  you  want  a  simple 
ghost  that  will  appear  at  regular  intervals 
and  at  a  certain  place.  You  don't  want 
anything  erratic  or  fancy.  You  wouldn't 
like  one  that  would  burn  its  hand  on  the 
furniture  or  predict  your  own  death  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Chisholm,  hurried 
ly  ;  "I  don't  think  that  I  should  care  for 
that  kind." 

"  So  I  imagined,"  continued  the  man. 
"  The  first  apparition  that  I  am  going  to 
show  you  is  very  old.  So  old  that  I  doubt 
if  you  will  like  it.  You  will  wish  some 
thing  lighter  and  less  severe." 

Gradually  the  darkness  at  one  end  of  the 
room  seemed  to  lose  its  density,  and  slow 
ly,  as  if  from  a  central  point,  a  cold,  wan 
light  spread  and  spread  sufficiently  to  ena 
ble  a  tall,  spectral  form  to  be  seen.  What 
teeth  Mr.  Chisholm  still  possessed  chat 
tered  violently,  and  here  and  there  a  hair 
stood  erect  upon  his  head.  He  saw  the  fig- 
9 


130  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

ure  of  a  monk  with  cowl  drawn  forward 
over  the  face,  barefooted,  and  with  a  pil 
grim's  staff.  Slowly  the  apparition  moved 
along,  but  at  the  third  step  paused  and, 
throwing  back  his  hood,  gazed  fixedly  at 
Mr.  Chisholm  with  eyes  that  were  now  cold 
and  fishy,  and  now  burned  like  molten  glass. 

Under  the  steady  look  Mr.  Chisholm 
trembled  in  every  limb. 

"  We  got  him  from  a  monastery  in  Spain," 
said  the  merchant,  glibly,  "  and  he  is  so 
very  ancient  that  really  there  is  no  record 
of  his  particular  grievance.  As  his  tongue 
is  cut  out,  he  cannot  inform  us  himself." 

"  I  think,"  murmured  the  millionnaire, 
"  that  I  should  prefer  one  that  could  speak. 
It  might  be  more  companionable." 

"  I  hardly  thought  this  would  suit  you. 
Still,  it  is  in  very  severe  good  taste.  I'll 
show  you  next  a  German  spectre  that  might 
take  your  fancy." 

The  dealer  clapped  his  hands,  and  the 
monk  vanished  with  a  suddenness  that 
made  Mr.  Chisholm  wink.  With  the  de 
spatch  of  a  "  lightning  -  change  artist  "  a 
shadowy  crusader  in  vaporous  armor  ap- 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  131 

peared.  Mingling  the  sustained  tone  of  a 
hoarse  bassoon  and  the  plaintive  tremolo 
of  an  unlatched  gate,  the  spectre  uttered  a 
few  words  in  a  language  that  neither  of  the 
visitors  understood. 

"  It's  Old  German,"  explained  the  owner. 
"  He  says,  '  I  did  not  kill  him.  I  did  not 
kill  him.'  " 

"  Doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  with  a 
great  assumption  of  ease,  "  some  unhappy 
being  who  in  life  was  unjustly  accused  of 
crime." 

"  No.  Not  at  all.  That  would  be  quite 
in  the  style  of  a  modern  ghost,  but  these 
veritable  antiques  are  quite  different.  They 
are  not  troubled  with  the  morbid  sen 
sitiveness  of  a  later  time.  I  happen  to 
know  this  ghost's  history.  His  lament  is 
that  he  fell  himself  into  the  oil  in  which  he 
was  about  to  boil  his  enemy." 

"Take  him  away,"  cried  Mr.  Chisholm, 
in  unconcealed  disgust.  "  I  wouldn't  have 
such  a  thing  about  the  house." 

"  Shall  I  show  you  next,"  asked  the  man, 
"  a  German  polter-geist,  a  Scotch  wraith,  an 
Irish  banshee,  or  a  Dutch  spook  ?" 


132  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY 

"  Don't  you  think  that  I  had  better  have 
one  that  speaks  English  ?" 

"  I  was  about  to  suggest  it  myself." 

With  a  low  wail,  that  for  an  instant 
stopped  the  beating  of  Mr.  Chisholm's 
heart,  a  slight,  shadowy  figure  of  a  woman 
floated  into  view.  Her  delicate  young  face 
was  as  the  face  of  one  distraught  with 
grief,  and  as  she  moved  along  she  wrung 
her  hands.  As  she  grew  more  distinct,  it 
could  be  seen  that  she  was  dressed  in 
widow's  weeds,  which  made  her  counte 
nance  appear  pale  and  waxen. 

"  She  murdered  her  husband,"  observed 
the  shopman.  "Listen." 

"The  color  of  it!  The  color  of  it!" 
moaned  the  spectre. 

"Ah  !"  cried  Mr.  Chisholm,  with  a  strange 
creeping  of  the  flesh.  "  Can — can  she  mean 
the— blood  ?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  shopman,  "not  in  the 
least.  She  finds  that  black  is  not  becoin- 
ing." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  care  for  her  either,"  ob 
served  the  millionnaire  with  some  decision. 

"  Business  is  not  very  good  in  July,  and 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  i33 

I  have  not  as  many  varieties  as  I  should 
like  to  show  you.  I  have  sent  away  a  good 
many  of  my  best  examples  to  the  country 
for  the  summer,  to  gain  pallor  and  weakness 
in  various  quiet  and  unfrequented  grave 
yards.  Still,  I  believe  I  can  supply  you  with 
what  you  want.  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
'  Horror  of  Ghoul  Hall,'  or  the  shrouded 
skeleton  from  Goblin  Chase  ?  Or  would 
you  care  to  have  a  look  at  Lady  Bleightly's 
ghost,  that  only  appears  thrice  in  a  century 
and  then  generally  reduces  the  beholder  to 
a  gibbering  idiot?  Ah  —  yes  —  I  have  it 
now.  Sir  Guy  de  Varquier,  a  nice,  gentle 
manly  apparition  of  the  very  highest  dis 
tinction." 

"  There  is  nothing  unpleasant  about 
him  ?" 

"  Very  subdued,  and  calculated  to  satisfy 
the  most  fastidious.  He  is  very  anxious 
that  his  former  abode  should  be  kept  secret 
— a  matter  of  family  pride." 

"  Bring  him  on,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  re 
signedly. 

A  sickly,  dull  red  glow  shone  in  the  dark 
ness  which  had  been  allowed  to  gather,  and 


134  GUILTY   SIR   GUY 

as  it  increased  there  appeared  the  dim 
figure  of  a  man  in  a  dress  of  the  time  of 
the  "Merry  Monarch."  In  his  right  hand 
he  held  aloft  a  wine-glass,  and  from  the 
ruby  liquid  that  it  contained  there  streamed 
a  flood  of  heavy  crimson  light. 

"  Drink  —  drink  —  drink  !"  moaned  the 
ghost. 

"  He  does  not  seem  unamiable,"  ob 
served  Mr.  Chisholm.  "What  was  his  dif 
ficulty  ?" 

"  Ask  him,"  replied  the  dealer. 

"  Sir  Guy  de  Varquier,"  began  Mr.  Chis 
holm,  unsteadily,  and  with  evident  uncer 
tainty  as  to  the  proper  mode  of  address,  it 
being  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  spoken 
to  a  ghost,  "  what—" 

"Beg  pardon,"  answered  the  spectre,  ab 
ruptly,  "  we  don't  pronounce  it  that  way  at 
home.  We  pronounce  it — Veryqueer." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  politely, 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings." 

"  Hurt  my  feelings  !"  repeated  the  ghost, 
in  some  surprise.  "  Why,  I'm  an  English 
man." 

"  Might  I  ask,"  continued  Mr.  Chisholm, 


"  GUILTY   SIR    GUY  135 

anxious  to  change  the  subject,  "  why  you 
carry  this  wine-glass  ?" 

"  That  is  what  makes  me  unique.  There 
is  absolutely  no  other  ghost  who  carries  a 
wine-glass.  I  am  called  '  Guilty  Sir  Guy.'  " 

The  spectre  paused  expectantly,  but  Mr. 
Chisholm  could  only  ask  clumsily, 

«  Why  ?" 

"  You  have  never  heard  of  me  ?"  said  the 
ghost,  in  evident  astonishment.  "  But  I 
forget  your  misfortune.  Still,  I  have  haunt 
ed  several  Americans  who  have  been  stop 
ping  at  our  place.  Indeed,  it  was  from  an 
American  that  I  first  got  the  idea  of  coming 
to  the  States." 

"  Yes  ?"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  question- 
ingly. 

"  He  offered  to  take  me  '  starring '  in  my 
own  car  through  the  country.  His  idea  was 
to  give  Hamlet,  and  make  the  ghost  the 
leading  part." 

"  You  did  not  accept  ?" 

"  No.  A  De  Varquier  an  actor  !  Never. 
I  am  perfectly  aware  that  persons  who  ap 
pear  nightly  upon  the  stage  are  now  re 
ceived  by  the  very  best  people,  but  I  have 


136  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

no  sympathy  or  patience  with  the  levelling 
tendencies  of  the  times." 

The  ghost  sighed  deeply. 

"  It  may  appear  strange  to  you  that  I 
should  be  willing  to  let  myself  out  in  this 
way  like  a  green-grocer  for  the  evening.  I 
would  not  do  it  if  I  could  help  myself.  It 
is  a  hard  necessity,  and  my  pride  revolts  at 
it,  but  the  fact  is  my  tomb  is  very  much  out 
of  repair.  Something  must  be  done  or  I 
sha'n't  have  a  place  to  lay  my  shade.  A 
ghost  can't  always  be  on  the — the  haunt. 
However,  my  good  friend  Mr.  Bogle  has 
promised  that  the  thing  shall  be  done  as 
quietly  as  possible  ;  and  as,  at  my  next  place, 
I  shall,  of  course,  assume  a  new  name,  it 
may  not  be  so  bad.  Besides,  so  many  of 
the  aristocracy  have  taken  to  dabbling  in 
trade,  I  do  not  feel  this  step  so  much  as  I 
otherwise  might.  I  have  a  great  deal  of 
leisure — our  place  being  shut  up  most  of 
the  time,  I  have  only  to  be  on  hand  for  the 
shooting  and  Christmas — so  I  thought  I 
might  just  as  well  profit  by  it." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which 
Mr.  Chisholm  vainly  tried  to  think  of  some 
thing  to  say. 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY"  137 

"As  you  may  imagine,"  continued  the 
ghost,  "  I  am  extremely  anxious  that  this 
step  of  mine  should  be  kept  quite  secret. 
As  an  old  member  of  the  family  I  naturally 
have  its  honor  at  heart.  The  honor  of  most 
ancient  families  depends  vipon  its  members 
doing  nothing.  If  what  I  am  doing  were 
known,  I  fear  the  moral  effect  upon  the 
present  head  of  the  house.  I  alone  have 
influence  enough  to  keep  him  from  dis 
gracing  the  rank  he  holds.  You  have  no 
idea  of  the  hours  that  I  have  haunted  him, 
trying  to  make  him  realize  the  duties  he 
owes  to  his  order.  I  am  quite  sure  that 
he  considers  me  a  prodigious  bore.  I  may 
even  say  that  I  believe  that  he  hates  the 
very  sight  of  me." 

"  But  the  story,"  suggested  Mr.  Chis- 
holm. 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,  the  story,"  said  the 
apparition/  "  I  loved  the  beautiful  heiress 
of  the  Cholmondeley-Chichester-Chortes- 
ques.  She  was  betrothed  to  another.  I 
swore  that  I  would  kill  that  other  and  drink 
the  bride's  health  in  his  blood  on  the  day 
of  my  marriage.  I  did  what  I  swore  I 


138  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

would  do.  At  the  feast  held  in  celebration 
of  our  union  the  butler  produced  a  decanter 
containing  my  rival's  heart's  blood,  which 
I  had  carefully  collected  and  preserved  for 
the  occasion.  It  looked  like  a  fair  kind  of 
claret.  I  arose.  The  glass  touched  my 
lips.  I  took  one  sip  and  fell  down  dead." 

11  Horrible,"  cried  Mr.  Chisholm. 

"  That  is  the  story,"  said  the  spectre, 
blandly. 

"  Yes,"  observed  Mr.  Chisholm. 

"  But  it  isn't  true." 

"  Not  true  ?" 

"  Bless  you,  hardly  a  word  of  it.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  the  truth,  since  the  story 
might  prejudice  you  against  me.  As  a 
general  thing,  however,  I  prefer  to  keep  up 
the  mystery.  Now,  just  to  show  you  out  of 
what  beginnings  these  things  grow.  All 
there  was  of  this  was  that  I  forgot  my 
speech,  blushed — and  that  is  the  way  pos 
terity  serves  up  the  incident." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr. 
Chisholm.  "  I  hope  that  I  may  be  able  to 
make  it  worth  your  while  to  remain  with 
me." 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  139 

"  If  the  house  is  dark  and  the  work  light 
I  think  it  might  be  arranged.  You  will 
find  me  very  easy  to  get  on  with.  I  can 
readily  accustom  myself  to  new  surround 
ings.  You  will  notice,  for  example,  that 
my  language  is  quite  modern,  and  I  fear 
even  that  I  have  picked  up  a  few  Amer 
icanisms.  But  what  can  you  expect  when 
you  are  compelled  to  associate  with  spirits 
that  only  dematerialized  yesterday?  Why, 
last  week  the  ghost  of  a  man  who  had  struck 
a  bonanza  had  the  impudence  to  leave  his 
epitaph  on  me.  However,  Mr.  Bogle,  my 
agent,  will  inform  you  of  my  terms.  I 
never  transact  business  myself." 

The  glass  fell  to  the  floor  and,  the  liquid 
losing  its  luminous  quality,  the  ghost  dis 
appeared. 

"  I'll  take  him,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm,  final 
ly.  "All  things  considered,  the  terms  are 
quite  reasonable." 

"Yes,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir.  But  before 
you  go  I  should  like  to  show  you  a  real 
curiosity.  The  very  ghost  mentioned  by 
Pliny  the  Younger,  that  appeared  to  the  phi 
losopher  Athenodorus.  If  you  have  time — " 


MO  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY 

"  Not  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Chisholm.  "  I'm 
really  in  quite  a  hurry." 

"  Some  time  when  you  are  passing,  then," 
said  the  dealer,  bowing  at  the  door-sill. 

Two  persons  sat  upon  the  terrace  over 
looking  the  vast  grounds  of  Mr.  Chisholm's 
summer  home.  The  moon  had  risen  far 
enough  to  light  the  wide  spaces  of  lawn 
and  glisten  in  a  broad  band  over  the  great, 
dark,  silently  flowing  river.  It  was  very 
beautiful,  but  the  two  could  see  nothing  of 
this.  They  were  seated  at  a  spot  where 
if  they  had  looked  they  could  have  discerned 
only  the  end  of  a  brick  wall  and  a  huge 
earthen  jar  containing  a  spreading  cactus. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  they  were 
lovers.  It  is,  however,  advisable  to  state 
that  one  was  Angelina  Chisholm  and  the 
other  the  Duke  of  Westendington,  and  that 
the  paternal  consent  to  their  marriage  had 
only  been  given  an  hour  before. 

"  And  now,"  said  Angelina,  joyfully,  "  I 
can  call  you  by  your  first  name.  That  is," 
she  added,  doubtfully,  "if  dukes  have  first 
names." 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  14* 

"  Oh,"  replied  her  lover,  cheerfully,  "  I. 
have  several.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  but 
that  I  have  rather  a  large  assortment.  I 
am  called  Edward  Albert  Arthur  Lionel — " 

"  I  shall  call  you  Lionel,"  announced 
Angelina  with  decision. 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  with  all  the  compla 
cent  assurance  of  a  lover  that,  whatever 
the  answer  may  be,  it  will  assuredly  be 
right. 

"  It  is  so  nice  and  dukely,"  she  answered, 
adoringly. 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"  At  last,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  can  escape 
the  life  of  deception  I  have  been  compelled 
to  lead  so  long.  At  last  I  can  be  myself." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  sympathizingly ; 
"  you  need  not  pretend  to  be  a  Avicked 
villain  and  a  vulgar  ruffian  any  longer. 
You  can  be  your  own  good,  upright,  ex 
emplary  self." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"When  I  heard  of  poor  Chippendale's 
fate — that  your  father  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him  on  account  of  his  excellent 
reputation — I  was  in  despair.  I  knew  that, 


142  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

if  anything,  I  was  more  objectionably  good 
than  he,  and  the  terrible  thought  came  to 
me  that  if  Mr.  Chisholm  were  to  know  the 
truth  he  would  distrust  me  and  his  doors 
would  be  closed  to  me  forever.  It  was 
some  time  before  I  made  up  my  mind.  But, 
my  resolution  once  taken,  I  acted  immedi 
ately.  I  managed  to  have  tales  of  my  utter 
moral  depravity,  every  one  of  them  false, 
brought  to  your  father's  ears.  I  managed 
to  make  him  believe  that  I  was  the  most 
abandoned  scoundrel  in  the  kingdom,  and 
then  —  happiness  —  I  obtained  his  permis 
sion  to  see  you." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"  But  after  that  why — why  did  you  remain 
silent  so  long?" 

"  There  was  a  terrible  reason.  I  was 
not  free.  I  could  not  speak  of  my  love 
until  I  was  sure  of  one  thing.  The  family 
curse  — 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  the 
terrace  nervously,  while  she  shrank  trem 
bling  into  the  corner. 

"  Even  now  we  may  not  escape  it.  I 
think  I  have  arranged  all,  but  I  may  be 


"  GUILTY   SIR   GUY  "  M3 

mistaken.  The  curse  that  has  blighted  so 
many  of  the  marriages  of  my  family  —  for 
it  was  especially  pronounced  on  marriages 
— may  yet  descend  and  involve  us.  Are 
you  willing  to  trust  me  ?" 

"  I  am  !  I  am  !"  she  cried. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  To-night,"  she  said,  as  they  parted, 
"  you  are  to  sleep  in  the  haunted  chamber. 
If — "  she  hesitated,  "  if  the  ghost  should  be 
disappointing  or  shouldn't  happen  to  ap 
pear  at  all,  I  hope  you  will  not  mention  it 
to  papa.  He  is  very  sensitive  about  this 
and  might  be  displeased." 

"  Never,"  he  exclaimed,  "  will  I  tell  him 
what  did  not  happen." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

It  was  midnight  in  the  blue-room. 

It  would  be  quite  proper  to  add  that  the 
clock  had  just  gone  twelve  and  that  the 
candle  had  expired  with  a  sickly  flicker. 
But  then  it  would  not  be  true.  The  fact 
was  that  the  big  clock  on  the  stairway,  after 
striking  twelve  as  clocks  sometimes  do  at 
midnight,  had  just  finished  playing  one  of 


144  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY 

Waldteufel's  waltzes,  and  the  electric  light 
shone  brilliantly. 

The  Duke,  who  was  sitting  by  the  window 
smoking,  suddenly  heard  a  voice  at  his 
elbow. 

"Turn  down  that  light." 

His  cigar  fell  from  his  trembling  hand. 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked,  turning  round,  but 
seeing  no  one. 

"  I  can't  appear.  I  can't  even  see  you," 
the  voice  replied.  "  I  can  stand  a  candle 
or  a  gas-burner  or  two,  but  this  electric 
light  literally  puts  me  out." 

"  You  have  come  to  haunt  me  ?" 

"  I  grieve  exceedingly  to  thrust  myself 
upon  you,  but  really  I  am  not  my  own 
master.  I  am  only  fulfilling  my  duty.  That 
is  what  I  am  here  to  do.  It  is  very  un 
pleasant  for  me  to  frighten  people  out  of 
their  wits." 

"  Then  you  are  very  frightful  ?" 

"  I  would  undoubtedly  terrify  you  very 
much.  But  if  you  refuse  to  turn  out  the 
light,  why,  I  have  done  my  part,  and — 

The  Duke  felt  that  the  ghost  had  shrug 
ged  its  shoulders. 


"  GUILTY   SIR   GUY  145 

"  I  really  must,  though,"  he  said  to  him 
self  resignedly,  as  he  thought  of  Angelina's 
warning  and  remembered  that  Mr.  Chis- 
holm  might  question  him  in  the  morning. 

"  It  would  really,"  said  the  spectral  voice 
give  me  great  pain  to  make  you  imbecile 
through  fear." 

"  I  must  see  you,"  answered  the  Duke, 
"  so  draw  it  as  mild  as  you  can." 

He  touched  a  button  and  the  room  sud 
denly  became  perfectly  dark.  The  ruby 
light  appeared.  The  spectre  was  slowly 
shadowed  forth. 

"Drink,  drink — "  the  ghost  began,  and 
then  suddenly  paused  in  evident  embarrass 
ment. 

"  What,"  said  the  Duke,  straightening 
himself  up  and  taking  a  step  forward — 
"  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

The  ghost  coughed  nervously. 

"  You  see — "  it  began. 

"  Now  this  won't  do  at  all,"  continued 
the  Duke,  angrily.  "  Why  are  you  over 
here  ?  I  thought  I  left  you  at  Feversleigh 
Castle  where  you  belong." 

"  I   imagined   that,  you  being  away  and 

10 


146  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

nothing  needed,  I  might  just  run  over  to 
see  the  country.  I — " 

"  Nonsense.  I  know  better.  I  have 
heard  the  whole  story.  You  have  sneaked 
off  here  in  your  own  interest.  And  after 
all  you  have  said  about  '  noblesse  oblige? 
I  say  it  is  disgraceful." 

"  Believe  me,"  said  the  now  thoroughly 
humiliated  spectre,  "  all  I  have  done  was 
for  what  I  thought  was  the  best." 

"  This  marriage  is  everything  in  the  world 
to  me,  and  you  have  opposed  it." 

"  Such  a  mesalliance." 

"  Better  than  misery." 

"  I  cannot  think  that  I  should  be  doing 
my  duty  to  consent,"  replied  the  spectre, 
critically.  "  Good-fortune  has  brought  me 
here,  and  if  this  marriage  takes  place  I 
shall,  however  painful  it  may  be  for  me  to 
do  so,  pronounce  the  family  curse." 

The  Duke  sank  trembling  on  his  knees. 

"  I  must,"  said  the  ghost,  now  again  him 
self  and  seeing  his  way  out  of  an  awkward 
predicament,  "uphold  the  dignity  of  the 
family  at  any  cost." 

"  No,   no,"  gasped  the   terrified  man  in 


"  GUILTY   SIR   GUY  "  M7 

hardly  articulate  tones,  cold  drops  of  per 
spiration  starting  out  upon  his  forehead. 

"  I  really  must,"  replied  the  ghost.  "  I 
had  to  do  it  when  the  third  duke  married 
Peggy  Thistlecraft,  the  actress,  and  you  know 
how  unpleasant  all  that  turned  out." 

"  Spare  me — spare  me,"  moaned  the  un 
happy  young  man. 

"  But  an  American,"  continued  the  ghost 
pettishly.  "  I  know  that  they  are  rather  the 
thing  just  now ;  but,  after  all,  that  is  but  an 
other  sign  of  the  degeneracy  of  the  times. 
These  Americans  are  destroying  everything." 

"  You  take  all  hope  from  me." 

"  Oh,  you'll  get  over  this  little  thing. 
You  think  you  won't,  but  you  will,  and, 
what  is  more,  you  will  be  particularly 
obliged  to  me  for  keeping  you  from  mak 
ing  a  fool  of  yourself." 

"  Never." 

"  You'd  better  have  it  over  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning  and  take  the  noon  train  for 
town." 

"  Rather  than  bring  the  curse  on  another 
I  will  consent." 

"  Any    one    else    would    have    done    it 


148  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

months  ago,"  answered  the  ghost  with  that 
perfect  freedom  that  family  intercourse  per 
mits. 

"And  now  if  you  please,"  said  the  Duke, 
"  could  you  leave  me  alone  ?  I  find  your 
presence  disturbing." 

"A  good  many  other  people  have  also 
found  it  so,"  murmured  the  ghost,  grimly. 

"  Leave  me." 

"I  think  that  when  you  are  fortunate 
enough  to  have  me  here,  and  when  you  have 
just  profited  by  my  advice,  it  might  be  wiser 
to  listen  to  me  further.  My  moral  support, 
at  least — " 

The  Duke  turned  on  the  light,  and  the 
spectre  was  lost  in  its  strong,  clear  efful 
gence. 

"  It  is  very  painful  to  me,"  said  the 
Duke,  after  his  interview  with  Mr.  Chisholm 
had  lasted  for  some  time,  "to  make  the 
announcement  to  you  that  I  am  compelled 
to  make.  But  the  family  curse — 

Mr.  Chisholm  visibly  shuddered. 

"  You  have  heard  of  it,"  said  the  Duke. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  millionnaire. 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  149 

"  It  would  be  launched  at  once." 

"  Horrible." 

"  I  thought  that  I  had  managed  to  es 
cape  it.  I  thought  that,  the  marriage  once 
accomplished,  all  might  go  well ;  but  last 
night,  in  the  blue-room — 

"  In  the  what  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Chis- 
holm. 

"  In  the  blue-room — the  spirit  of  an  an 
cestor  appeared  to  me." 

"The  spirit  of  your  ancestor!  The  spirit 
of  fiddle-sticks,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Chisholm. 

"  And  threatened  to  utter  the — " 

"  Threatened  to  utter  it,  did  he  ?  I'll  see 
about  his  flinging  curses  around  loose." 

"  Beware.  Do  not  provoke  an  unknown 
power." 

"  An  unknown  power  indeed  !  Only  too 
well  known.  Why,  that  ghost  is  my  own 
particular  property,  and  a  precious  bad 
bargain  he  is  too  —  the  first  that  I  ever 
made.  I  was  always  suspicious  of  him 
from  the  first — he  seemed  altogether  too 
anxious  to  conceal  his  antecedents  —  and 
so  I  put  a  clever  young  man  of  mine  on 
the  track.  He  has  just  reported  to  me 


150  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

this  morning,  and  I  only  just  now  learned 
that  this  ghost  came  from  Feversleigh 
Castle.  But  that  is  not  all.  With  the 
assistance  of  our  English  lawyers,  he  has 
made  a  discovery  that  I  believe  will  put 
a  new  face  on  this  matter." 

Mr.  Chisholm  touched  a  bell  and  the 
clever  young  man  appeared. 

"  You  found  that  the  ghost  of  Fevers 
leigh  Castle,  known  as  'Guilty  Sir  Guy,' 
was  not  Sir  Guy  after  all  ?" 

The  clever  young  man  bowed. 

"  No  !"  cried  the  Duke.     "  Who  then  ?" 

"  The  family  butler,"  answered  the  clever 
young  man  at  a  sign  from  Mr.  Chisholm. 
"  He  is  compelled  to  go  about  offering  a 
glass  of  the  wine  that  he  kept  for  his  own 
use  during  life  to  every  member  of  the  family 
in  each  generation.  The  generally  accredit 
ed  story  has,  after  the  manner  of  all  myths 
and  legends,  grown  slowly  up  from  this 
beginning." 

"  Wonderful !"  exclaimed  the  Duke.  "  But 
how  did  it  happen  ?" 

"  They  were  changed  at  death." 

"The  butler  and  Sir  Guy?" 


"GUILTY  SIR  GUY  151 

"Yes." 

"  And  this  is  an  utter  impostor  ?" 

"  Utter." 

"At  last,"  cried  the  Duke,  "I  am  free. 
I  must,"  he  continued,  in  wild  delight,  "see 
the  true  ghost — Sir  Guy  himself — and  get 
his  consent.  Of  course  he'll  give  it.  No 
one  but  a  low  upstart  would  take  advan 
tage  of  his  position.  Of  course  he'll  give 
his  consent." 

And  of  course  the  true  ghost  did  con 
sent. 

As  the  Duke  and  his  young  wife  were 
passing  through  the  portrait-gallery  on  the 
first  night  of  their  arrival  at  Feversleigh 
Castle,  they  saw  coming  toward  them  the 
figure  of  a  tall,  graceful  man  in  a  costume 
that  De  Grammont  might  have  worn.  His 
face  was  long  and  sad,  but  a  reckless  mirth- 
fulness  shone  in  his  long,  narrow  eyes. 

"  My  children,"  he  said,  in  a  soft,  low 
voice,  "  be  not  afraid.  I  come  not  for 
harm,  but  rather  for  your  good." 

Angelina  trembled  within  the  encircling 
arm  of  the  Duke. 


i52  "GUILTY  SIR  GUY" 

"  Do  not  fear,  pretty  one,"  continued  the 
spectre  in  the  same  silky  tones.  "  There 
is  no  curse.  It  is  but  the  invention  of  that 
lying  varlet  that  did  usurp  my  place,  and 
who,  methinks,  did  somewhat  overdo  the 
matter.  In  truth,  he  did  come  to  regard 
his  tales,  uttered  after  the  manner  of  his 
kind,  as  absolute  verities." 

"  No  curse  ?"  cried  the  Duke. 

"  Young  sir,  no.  I  myself,  after  all,  am 
but  an  honorary  ghost  attached  to  the  fam 
ily  as  one  of  some  consideration  and  dis 
tinction,  until  by  murder,  suicide,  or  some 
other  peccadillo  we  are  entitled  to  one. 
This  place  that  low-born  villain  did  take 
from  me.  But  I  am  brought  to  my  own 
again,  even  as  was  his  blessed  Majesty,  and 
all  may  now  be  well." 

"  How  nice!"  said  Angelina. 

"  Od'sfish  !"  murmured  the  spectre;  "if 
my  royal  master  King  Charles  could  but 
have  seen  these  Americans  !" 


IN   THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE 


IN   THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE 

Felix  Oldys  let  the  book  rest  upon  his 
knee,  with  one  long,  thin  finger  upon  the 
page  he  had  finished. 

"  Know  then,"  so  ran  the  words  he  had 
just  read,  "  that  there  are  tragedies  greater 
than  those  that  end  in  death.  The  extinc 
tion  of  something  that  cometh  from  one  in 
finite  and  seeketh  another,  and  which,  while 
it  lasts,  is  both  invisible  and  impalpable,  is 
a  wonderful  and  terrible  spectacle ;  but  in 
itself  it  is  a  happening  of  but  little  moment. 
It  only  signifies,  that  is  that  was  before. 
Wherefore  is  this  lamentable  :  Man  is  given 
here  but  little  time  to  live  and  in  that  time 
works  much  evil.  Is  not  this  rather  the 
grievous  thing,  that  life  should  continue,  and 
that  the  harm,  as  is  the  nature  of  harm, 
should  be  without  end  ?  Tragedy  lies  more 
often  in  the  continuance  of  life  than  in  its 


156  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

surcease.  Therefore,  I  enjoin  you,  call  not 
a  man's  death  a  tragedy,  for,  if  he  had  lived, 
you  know  not  what  evil  might  have  been 
wrought.  In  truth,  were  I  to  write  a  trage 
dy  wherewith  to  delight  the  judicious,  for 
catastrophe  I  would  take  a  birth,  which  is 
the  beginning  of  life." 

He  glanced  out  of  the  open  window  be 
side  which  he  sat. 

It  is  noon.  Each  shadow  is  reduced  to 
its  minimum.  Since  sunrise  the  encroach 
ing  light  has  been  conquering,  overrunning 
the  country,  and  now  its  empire  has  reached 
its  ultimate  extent.  It  is  noon;  it  is  also 
the  year's  meridian,  for  it  is  July.  There  is 
not  a  cloud  in  the  intense,  firm  sky,  and  the 
heat  has  grown  until  the  shadeless  country 
seems  almost  incandescent.  The  day  is 
perfect ;  it  is  even  arrogant  in  its  perfec 
tion.  There  is  the  unsympathetic  barren 
ness  of  consummation,  the  vacuity  of  ab 
solute  satisfaction.  No  country  could  be 
fairer,  and  in  no  other  time  could  this  be 
more  fair.  Looking  as  Felix  Oldys  did 
from  the  window  of  his  library,  his  eyes 
fell  upon  a  wide  and  grateful  scene.  From 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  157 

the  sweep  of  the  drive-way  about  the  house, 
the  ground  descends  in  almost  terraced  reg 
ularity  to  a  small  lake;  the  incline  of  the 
valley  is  so  gentle  that,  though  its  depth  is 
not  great,  its  opposite  slope  appears  blue 
and  hazy  near  the  rim.  The  landscape, 
in  its  unclulant  prettiness,  seems  in  the 
distance  a  carefully  laid  out  garden,  the 
smooth  roads  appearing  like  paths  and 
the  regular  fields  almost  like  flower-beds. 
If  ever  rebellious  nature  has  been  tamed, 
trained,  domesticated,  almost  humanized, 
it  is  here.  No  money,  no  labor,  no  thought 
has  been  spared,  and  the  whole  region  is  a 
marvel  in  its  way.  Indeed,  it  is  famous 
throughout  the  country,  and  is  regarded  al 
most  with  a  certain  awe  as  an  Elysium  of 
landscape-gardening  into  which  humanity  is 
translated  after  having  achieved  the  apothe 
osis  of  riches.  The  house  commanding  this 
view  is  an  irregular  structure  of  rough,  dark 
stone,  built  in  such  fashion  that  its  outlines 
follow  the  contour  of  the  hill  upon  which  it 
is  placed,  thus  giving  it  a  solidity  of  aspect 
that  is  not  without  impressiveness.  It  is 
very  large.  There  is  a  high,  dim  hall,  with 


158  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

a  stairway  for  which  a  famous  sculptor 
designed  the  balustrade ;  there  are  long, 
shadowy,  gilded  drawing-rooms,  with  ceil 
ings  painted  by  a  great  artist ;  there  is  an 
impressive  leather-decked  dining-room  and 
a  gay  little  silk-hung  breakfast-room  ;  there 
is  a  huge  conservatory  constantly  replen 
ished  with  orchids  from  the  distant  green 
houses  that  glitter  in  the  light  like  the 
palaces  of  a  fairy  tale ;  there  are  wide- 
spreading  stables  in  which  are  housed 
equine  perfection  in  various  forms,  from 
the  nimble  polo  pony  to  the  stately  carriage 
horse;  there  are  big,  adjacent  buildings  in 
which  are  ranged  all  vehicles  of  contempo 
rary  or  habitual  use,  from  the  highest,  light 
est  cart  to  the  heaviest,  most  resplendent, 
and  imposing  of  coaches.  The  grounds  are 
a  fit  setting  for  the  house.  There  are  broad 
lawns  dotted  with  beds  as  intricate  in  de 
sign  and  as  harmonious  in  combination  of 
color  as  the  finest  rugs  of  Teheran  ;  there 
are  endless  walks,  sharp-edged  and  kept 
by  the  gardeners  from  all  blemish  of  fallen 
leaf  or  twig,  in  which  you  might  lose 
yourself  alone ;  there  are  trimmed  and 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  I5Q 

tortured  groves  with  cunningly  contrived 
windings  in  which  you  assuredly  would  lose 
yourself  with  another. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  very  costly  and  very 
charming. 

The  melancholy  words  Felix  Oldys  had 
read  hung  persistently  in  his  mind. 

In  his  youth,  because  of  his  cadaverous 
appearance  and  the  listless,  mournful  ex 
pression  of  his  intelligent,  high-bred  face, 
Oldys  had  been  called  the  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy.  There  was  another  reason, 
moreover,  that  justified  the  appellation.  In 
him,  as  in  old  Burton's  famous  volume,  was 
great  store  of  odd  bits  of  forgotten  wit  and 
wisdom,  gathered  from  the  crusted  phrases 
of  dead  and  long-gone  writers — writers  often 
like  the  writer  of  the  book  he  had  just  laid 
down,  utterly  unknown  save  to  bibloma- 
niacal  fame.  It  was  a  very  small  volume 
by  a  certain  Sir  Geoffrey  de  Blacquiere, 
written  with  a  substrain  of  melancholy  that 
one  might  have  been  surprised  to  find — or 
not  find — in  the  production  of  a  frequenter 
of  the  Court  of  the  Restoration.  In 
significant  though  it  might  be,  it  was  very 


160  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

valuable,  for  it  was  supposed  to  be  unique. 
It  contained,  in  the  very  dissertation  that 
Oldys  had  just  read,  "  Upon  the  Quitting  of 
this  Doleful  Habitation,"  the  only  printed 
account — realistic  in  detail — of  a  scandal 
about  a  very  great  personage,  and,  having 
been  rigorously  suppressed,  this  copy  was 
the  only  one,  so  far  as  known,  that  had 
escaped  destruction.  It  was  bound  with 
all  the  art  of  a  Grolier  or  a  Roger  Payne, 
and  was  a  volume  in  every  way  worthy  of  a 
place  in  Oldys's  great  library.  It  had  been 
bidden  in  for  him  at  a  recent  sale  at  the 
Hotel  Drouot,  at  a  price  that  had  caused  his 
French  competitors  to  stare  at  the  prodi 
gality  of  this  American  millionnaire,  as  their 
forefathers  had  at  the  extravagance  of  some 
English  "  milor." 

As  Oldys  put  down  the  book,  he  had,  at 
first,  thought  only  of  the  sombre  meaning 
of  the  passage ;  but  gradually  the  mournful 
cadence  of  the  words  grew  stronger,  and 
he  lost  the  significance  of  the  sense  in  the 
sadness  of  the  sound. 

The  perfect  silence  was  oppressive — the 
silence  of  a  great  house — the  more  notice- 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  161 

able,  perhaps,  because  one  almost  insensi 
bly  listens  for  something  of  the  stifled  stir 
of  life  in  the  huge,  unpeopled  rooms. 

Felix  Oldys  drew  out  his  watch,  opened 
it,  and  looked  at  it.  Replacing  it,  he  picked 
up  his  book  and  settled  himself  anew  in  his 
chair  preparatory  to  its  further  perusal. 
Hardly,  however,  had  he  raised  it  from  his 
knee  when  he. let  it  fall  from  his  powerless 
hand. 

A  woman's  quick,  wild,  piercing  shriek 
rang  through  the  house. 

Starting  to  his  feet,  he  listened  breath 
lessly,  motionlessly.  In  the  distance  he 
heard  the  noise  of  hastening  steps,  a  con 
fused  tumult  of  voices.  Then,  again,  there 
was  perfect  stillness.  He  had  hardly  time 
to  recover  from  the  inevitable  inactivity 
of  sudden  amazement,  and  to  take  half  a 
dozen  steps  towards  the  door,  when  it  was 
suddenly  thrown  open,  and  a  man  in  the 
dress  of  a  house-servant  stood  before  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Jarvis  ?"  Oldys  had  time  to 
ask  before  the  man  could  collect  himself 
sufficiently  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Daryl  has  been  brought  home  dead, 


I&2  IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE 

sir,"  answered  Jarvis,  stammering  in  his  ex 
citement.  "  The  horse  he  was  trying  over 
the  gate  of  the  stable-yard  fell  with  him 
and  killed  him.  And  Miss  Annette — 

But  Oldys  had  hurried  past  him  out  of 
the  room. 

The  light  is  as  intense,  the  heat  as  great, 
as  it  was  an  hour  ago  when  Oldys  sat  in  the 
library.  There  is  not  a  distinct,  severable 
sound  to  be  heard  ;  only  the  dull,  mysterious 
hum  of  a  hot  summer  day  as,  almost  unno- 
ticeably,  it  rises  unbrokenly  in  soft  mono 
tone.  There  is  something  grandly  restful, 
powerfully  peaceful,  in  the  time.  Not  even 
a  leaf  stirs.  Everything  is  at  rest — a  lethar 
gic  rest ;  the  world  seems  sunk  in  narcotic 
torpidity. 

Suddenly  a  man  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  house,  crossed  the  veranda,  rested 
his  hands  upon  the  heavy  railing,  and  gazed 
intently  down  the  driveway.  It  was  only 
an  hour  since  Oldys  had  let  fall  his  book 
to  gaze  upon  that  same  landscape,  but  he 
looked  years  older  ;  it  was  only  an  hour,  but 
it  was  an  hour  such  as  had  never  come  to 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE  163 

him  before.  He  gazed  anxiously  down  upon 
the  country,  where  the  white  roads  showed 
among  the  green  fields  almost  as  distinctly 
as  a  chalk  mark  shows  on  the  cloth  of  a 
billiard-table.  No  moving  thing  was  visible. 
He  shook  his  head  in  impatient  gesture,  his 
eyebrows  were  drawn  together  angrily,  but 
under  the  stiff  white  moustache  his  lips 
twitched  tremulously,  weakly. 

"  God  grant  they  find  him,"  he  muttered, 
unconsciously. 

He  is  tall  and  thin ;  in  appearance  he  is 
commanding,  even  imposing.  He  is  dressed 
in  the  light,  loose  garb  of  summer,  and  his 
clothes  are  worn  with  the  ease  and  grace 
that  mark  him  as  belonging  to  that  small 
class  who  are  pre-eminently  clothes-wearing 
creatures.  In  his  youth  he  was  hardly 
good-looking ;  in  his  old  age,  as  sometimes 
happens  with  men  of  intellectual  life,  he 
has  become  exceedingly  handsome.  Over 
his  fine  old  sunburned  face  is  cast  a  look 
of  grievous  apprehension,  almost  terror. 
You  cannot  help  feeling  that  it  is  an  un 
usual  expression.  There  are  some  faces 
on  which  sorrow  seems  to  sit  naturally; 


164  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

others  on  which  it  appears  incongruous, 
and  as  an  unfitting  and  unwonted  garment 
suddenly  put  on.  Felix  Oldys's  counte 
nance  had  never  at  any  time  of  his  life, 
when  in  repose,  expressed  much  of  any 
thing  except  a  mocking  but  not  ill-natured 
scepticism.  Now,  when  he  is  an  old  man, 
real  trouble  has  for  the  first  time  suddenly 
found  him.  From  his  father  and  mother — 
both  of  whom  had  died  when  he  was  too 
young  to  remember  either — he  had  inherited 
fortunes  which  had  enabled  him  to  escape 
from  every  evitable  annoyance,  and  an  easy 
going  and  unambitious  disposition  that  kept 
him  from  creating  embittering  ills  for  him 
self.  He  had  married  and  had  lost  his 
wife,  but  the  bliss  of  the  holy  state  had  not 
been  so  ecstatic  that  solitude  was  unmiti 
gated  misery.  His  satisfaction  in  himself 
had  been  absolute,  and  he  had  always 
thought  that  he  was  freed  from  those  hu 
man  ties  that  are  both  the  joy  and  the  mis 
ery  of  most.  He  had  never  imposed  high 
standards  upon  any  one  or  expected  to  find 
them  imposed  by  others,  and  the  leniency 
with  which  he  regarded  the  world  he  had 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  165 

only  thought  it  fair  to  extend  to  himself. 
He  had  always  been  told  that  he  was  a  self 
ish  man,  and  as  he  never  contradicted  any 
one — not  even  himself — he  had  always  be 
lieved  it  to  be  so.  After  his  wife's  death, 
when  he  discovered  that  there  was  still 
enough  left  in  the  world  to  make  his  life 
quite  as  enjoyable  as  it  had  been  before, 
he  became  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
he  was  a  selfish,  perhaps  an  unfeeling  per 
son.  Now,  it  is  with  more  than  a  shock 
of  surprise  —  it  is  with  something  of  the 
sense  of  revelation,  that  he  finds  that,  as 
he  stands  there  in  the  blazing  sunlight, 
there  is  some  one  very  necessary  to  his 
happiness. 

"  On  such  a  morning  too,"  he  murmured, 
with  that  feeling  that  we  all  have  had  that 
grief  is  doubly  grievous,  that  it  is  unbear 
able  in  its  unnaturalness,  on  some  glorious, 
brilliant  summer  day. 

The  calm  -  faced,  insensitive  country  is 
maddening  to  him  in  its  stolidity.  He 
glances  at  the  terrace  below  him.  The 
light  cane  lounging-chairs  on  the  veranda 
are  in  groups,  as  if  continuing  the  care- 


166  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

less  conversation  or  perhaps  the  light  con 
fidences  of  their  last  occupants ,  a  riding- 
crop  hangs  from  the  stiff  leaves  of  a  cactus  ; 
two  tennis  rackets  lean  against  a  table, 
upon  which  lies  a  woman's  glove.  Every 
where,  startling  and  almost  voiceful  to 
him,  are  indications  of  the  thoughtless,  un 
troubled  life  of  the  past — of  yesterday — of 
the  hour  before. 

"  In  the  midst  of  life,"  he  said,  gently, 
recalling  words  he  had  caught  at  some  -fu 
neral  to  which  he  had  unwillingly  gone, 
reluctant  always  to  recognize  trouble,  and 
regarding  it  as  he  might  some  common  ob 
trusive  upstart  who  has  forced  a  half-ac 
quaintance. 

Another  glance  at  the  distant  road,  and 
with  lingering  step  he  turned  toward  the 
door  and  entered  the  house. 

In  the  comparative  obscurity  near  the 
stairway  was  a  group  of  servants.  His  own 
man  Jarvis  stood  rather  in  advance  of  the 
rest,  and,  as  Oldys  crossed  the  hall,  ventured 
to  address  him. 

"  Is  he  better,  sir  ?"  the  man  asked,  hesi 
tatingly,  and  in  the  low  voice  of  respectful 
sympathy. 


IN   THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE  167 

His  companions  ceased  their  whispered 
talk  and  listened  for  the  answer. 

"  No,  Jarvis,  no,"  replied  Oldys,  absent 
ly,  and  hardly  raising  his  head.  "  He  is  still 
unconscious." 

"  It's  awful,  sir,"  said  Jarvis,  stepping 
back. 

As  Oldys  mounted  the  stairs  his  feet  fell 
heavily  and  slowly  on  the  sounding  wood , 
the  elastic  step,  the  erect  carriage  of  an 
hour  before  were  gone.  Well  he  knew  the 
scene  that  awaited  him  above ;  three  times 
he  had  made  the  journey  from  which  he 
was  now  returning,  only  to  find  all  practically 
unchanged.  Could  he  come  back  to  it  again 
without  the  desired  tidings  ?  But  Felix  Ol 
dys  learned,  as  he  had  learned  that  day  an 
other  thing  equally  surprising  to  him,  that  he 
was  a  brave  man  ;  and  without  visible  hesi 
tation  he  opened  a  door  in  the  upper  corri 
dor  and  entered  a  large,  darkened  room. 

On  the  bed  lies  a  young  man,  His 
coat  is  off;  his  waistcoat  is  unbuttoned 
and  hangs  loosely ;  he  wears  white  riding- 
breeches  and  shining  riding-boots ,  his 
shirt  is  widely  open  at  the  collar,  showing 


I6S  IN   THE   MIDST   OF    LIFE 

his  short,  thick  white  neck  and  a  little  of 
the  smooth  skin  of  his  chest.  In  his  face  is 
the  apathy  of  absolute  insensibility.  That 
he  is  a  glorious  human  creature  is  evident. 
He  is  neither  tall  nor  short ;  neither  un 
wieldy  nor  slight ;  his  head  is  small,  but 
finely  shaped  —  the  perfectly  proportioned 
head  of  the  true  athlete ;  his  features  are 
singularly  regular  —  the  line  from  the  first 
crisp  curl  on  the  forehead  down  the  brow 
and  nose  curving  only  slightly  and  in  deli 
cate  but  unfrigid  purity.  Bloodless,  almost 
absolutely  white  as  his  face  now  is,  it  might 
more  properly  seem  the  face  of  some  win 
ner  in  a  Nemoean  game,  almost  living  still 
in  the  perfect  marble  of  the  complete  time 
before  rascal  intelligence  like  a  hump  backed 
Richard  had  so  entirely  usurped  the  throne, 
and  when  physical  beauty  was  held  as 
worthy  of  honor  as  brains.  By  his  side, 
holding  one  of  his  hands,  sits  a  young  girl. 
If  she  had  been  reared  with  disadvan 
tageous  surroundings  and  beneath  un- 
favoring  influences,  if  she  had  grown  up 
in  poverty  and  ignorance,  she  might  have 
been  ugly ;  but,  born  to  great  fortune  and 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE  l<>9 

high  position,  living  all  her  life  in  the  re 
fining  environment  that  wealth  and  posi 
tion  generally  create,  she  has  to  a  high 
degree  that  artificial  attractiveness  that  in 
our  modern  eyes  is  often  more  desirable 
than  a  more  regular  but  less  expressive 
loveliness.  We  have  not  yet  found  a  word 
to  describe  exactly  the  quality  that  we 
prize  so  much.  Sometimes  we  call  it  "  dis 
tinction  "  ;  sometimes,  in  attempted  expla 
nation,  we  use  the  word  "  interesting  "  ; 
sometimes  all  that  we  can  find  to  say  is 
that  the  possessor  of  this  mysterious  qual 
ity  is  "  nice-looking."  One  positive,  un 
deniable  beauty,  however,  she  has  —  her 
dark  eyes,  which  are  wide,  deep,  glorious ; 
vivid  with  expression  of  unthinking,  un 
hesitating  impulsiveness  ;  intense  with  as 
surance  of  power  for  self-forgetting,  self-sac 
rificing  devotion. 

She  looked  up  as  Oldys  entered. 

Her  face  has  hardly  more  color  in  it 
than  the  face  on  which  her  eyes  had  been 
fixed,  and  a  strand  of  her  dark  hair  which 
had  broken  loose  and  fallen  over  her  shoul 
der  seems  almost  to  heighten  her  paleness. 


17°  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

"  Can't  you  see  him,  father  ?"  she  asked 
in  a  low,  hard  voice  —  a  voice  dry,  des 
iccated — as  if  all  tears  had  been  wrung 
from  it. 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Oldys  as  he  wearily 
seated  himself. 

"  But  he  must  come  soon." 

"Yes." 

"  If  they  can  only  find  him — if  they  can 
only  find  him  !"  moaned  the  girl. 

"  He  must  surely  be  at  home  at  this 
time,"  replied  her  father,  with  the  weak 
assurance  of  one  who  speaks  only  to  pacify, 
and  without  positive  belief  in  what  he  says. 

"  And  when  he  comes  do  you  think  he' 
can  help  him  ?"  continued  the  girl,  with  all 
the  unreasoning  absurdity  of  that  grief  so 
desperate  that  even  the  sound  of  the  words, 
in  which  it  is  impossible  that  there  can  be 
any  real  comfort,  seems  to  afford  relief. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Oldys,  as  if  trying 
to  prove  to  himself  that  nothing  could  be 
so  very  bad  when  he  could  talk  so  calmly 
and  collectedly,  "that  he  is  considered  a 
very  skilful  man  —  quite  remarkable,  in 
deed." 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  I?l 

"Can't  you  hear  wheels?"  she  asked 
again,  suddenly  looking  up. 

Oldys  turned  towards  the  window,  with 
the  impulse  that  always  leads  us  to  look 
in  the  direction  from  which  we  expect  to 
hear  any  sound,  and  listened  attentively. 

After  a  motionless  moment  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  sadly. 

The  scarce-stirring  air,  heavy  with  the 
perfume  of  the  heated  fields,  slightly  dis 
placed  the  light  curtains,  causing  a  gently- 
lapping  sound  and  allowing  a  flickering 
light  to  play  over  the  floor. 

"And  this  is  my  honeymoon  !"  cried  the 
girl  in  a  rebellious  voice,  "  and  I  was  so 
happy,  happy  —  unconsciously,  unhesitat 
ingly  happy.  Is  that  all  that  joy  is — 
something  so  that  we  may  feel  grief  the 
more  ?  It  is  wrong  to  trouble  any  one  so 
happy  as  I  have  been — it  is  cruel.  I  might 
have  been  spared  because  I  was  so  happy. 
Does  God  see  so  much  happiness  on  earth 
that  he  dared  destroy  mine  ?" 

"Annette,"  said  Oldys,  "you  cannot 
know  what  you  say.  You  frighten  me ; 
you  harm  yourself." 


172  IN    THE    M.IDST   OF   LIFF. 

"  It  is  right  that  I  should  rebel,"  she 
went  on  unheeding  her  father,  her  voice 
now  rising,  now  falling,  until  it  might  have 
seemed  to  any  one  too  distant  to  distin 
guish  her  words  that  she  was  crooning 
some  wild,  irregular  dirge.  "  Life  is  not 
given  to  us  as  a  bribe.  God  may  expect 
gratitude,  but  not  blindness.  Such  a  death 
as  this  is  outrage  —  only  an  exercise  of 
pitiless  power.  But  I  will  not  believe  that 
he  will  die,"  she  cried,  "  that  he  will  die 
and  that  I  shall  live.  He  taught  me  how 
to  live  and  now  he  is  dead.  Before  I  knew 
him  I  knew  nothing ;  I  breathed,  I  moved, 
I  lay  down  and  I  rose  up.  I  called  it  liv 
ing,  but  I  did  not  live.  Then  he  came  and 
all  was  changed.  The  most  trivial  things 
of  life  meant  more,  the  commonest  aspects 
of  the  world  gained  beauty.  It  was  as  if 
my  senses  had  been  given  new  power ;  as 
if  new  senses  had  been  created  fit  for 
other  worlds,  and  given  to  me  because  I 
had  more  to  feel." 

She  looked  at  Oldys  and  then  again 
at  the  stricken  man  —  struck  down  in  his 
youth  and  strength  and  comeliness  —  a 


IN    THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE  173 

comeliness,  a  consummate  physical  fair 
ness  that  hardly  seemed  native  to  our 
cramped  times,  but  rather  something  fresh 
ly,  freely,  grandly  pagan. 

"  Before,"  she  continued,  "  I  should  have 
been  unworthy  even  to  mourn  him,  for  to 
mourn  rightly  we  must  know  what  we  have 
lost,  and  now — 

"  Annette,"  said  Oldys,  "  such  raving  is 
senseless." 

"  I  loved  him  —  I  loved  him,"  she  re 
peated  with  increasing  vehemence,  "  and 
he  loved  me.  Sometimes  I  almost  doubted 
if  it  could  be  so,  but  he  loved  me.  He 
saw  me,  beautiful  as  he  was,  and  did  not 
find  me  ugly;  with  all  his  goodness  and 
nobility  he  did  not  think  me  despicable. 
He  found  me  worthy  of  his  love  and  I  am 
satisfied.  He  may  die,  but  he  shall  live  in 
my  heart,  my  thoughts ;  and  while  reason  is 
left  to  me  not  even  a  remorseless  God  can 
take  him  from  me.  I— 

"Annette,"  said  Oldys,  at  last  interrupt 
ing  with  a  tone  of  some  firmness  the  wild 
onrush  of  her  undirected  exclamations, 
"  you  must  calm  yourself.  You  will  lose 
your  mind  or  make  me  lose  mine." 


174  IN   THE   MIDST   OF    LIFE 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  something  ?"  she  said, 
sharply. 

Oldys  rose,  and  going  to  the  window  drew 
aside  the  curtain  and  looked  out ;  but,  after 
standing  an  instant  in  rigid  attention,  he 
shook  his  head  and  turned  slowly  away  from 
the  light. 

"  I  do,"  she  insisted,  holding  up  her  hand. 
"  I  can  hear  wheels." 

She  was  not  mistaken.  Turning  again 
in  anxious  expectation,  Oldys  almost  imme 
diately  caught  the  rattle  of  wheels  on  the 
hard  road,  and  soon  the  quick  hoof-beats 
of  a  horse  almost  at  full  gallop. 

"Go!  Go  !"  commanded  the  girl.  "Bring 
him  here." 

As  Oldys  emerged  from  the  house  he  saw 
a  horse  black  with  sweat,  spotted  with  foam, 
and  a  high-swung  cart  in  which  were  seated 
two  men,  start  out  from  behind  the  clump 
of  trees  that  concealed  the  lodge  and  ad 
vance  rapidly  up  the  avenue.  As  the  driver 
drew  up  before  the  steps  with  a  strong,  sud 
den  pull  that  nearly  threw  the  powerful  ani 
mal  on  his  haunches,  a  man  stood  up,  who, 


IN    THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE  1/5 

even  before  the  vehicle  had  come  to  a  per 
fect  stand-still,  had  picked  up  a  small  leather 
bag  and  sprung  nimbly  over  the  wheel. 

"  Thank  God,  Doctor,  that  you  are  here," 
said  Oldys,  seizing  the  new-comer  by  the 
hand. 

"An  accident,  sir?"  asked  the  physician 
in  quick,  nervous  tones,  as  Oldys  hurried 
him  into  the  house. 

"  My  son-in-law,  Mr.  Daryl,  was  thrown 
from  his  horse  an  hour  ago,"  answered 
Oldys.  "  He  has  been  unconscious  ever 
since." 

"  It  is  serious,  then,"  and  the  doctor  spoke 
with  an  intonation  that  plainly  showed  that 
he  had  expected  to  find  only  some  trifling 
injury  that  apprehension  had  magnified. 

"  Serious !"  repeated  Oldys,  almost 
shocked.  "  It  is  death." 

He  had  tried  rigorously  to  maintain  his 
composure,  but  with  the  last  word  his  voice 
broke. 

"  Doctor,"  he  continued,  as  they  has 
tened  through  the  hall,  "you  may  have  two 
lives  dependent  upon  you.  It  would  kill 
her — my  daughter." 


176  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  physician,  bow 
ing  his  head  gravely.  "  It  was  their  honey 
moon." 

"They  were  married  only  three  months 
ago." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  room 
in  which  the  injured  man  lay. 

"  She  is  with  him  now,"  said  Oldys,  soft 
ly.  "  She  has  not  left  him." 

The  doctor  nodded  shortly.   • 

He  was  scarcely  a  significant,  though  cer 
tainly  not  an  insignificant  looking  man. 
Young,  hardly  yet  with  foot  upon  the  pla 
teau  of  middle  age,  he  was  still  slightly  bald 
and  decidedly  inclined  to  stoutness.  His 
face,  though  common  in  type,  was  intelli 
gent  in  expression,  and  the  quickness  of  his 
motions  suggested  a  certain  quickness  of 
mind.  A  poor  country  practitioner,  he  was 
evidently  somewhat  awed  by  his  surround 
ings,  and  this  sudden  call  to  a  new  scene 
and  unusual  responsibilities  had  clearly  dis 
turbed  him. 

"  I  have  telegraphed  to  town,"  said  Oldys, 
as  they  paused  before  the  door,  "  to  Doctor 
Tisdale,  to  come  on  a  special  train  if  nec 
essary." 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  177 

The  young  physician  bowed  with  a  quick 
expression  of  disappointment.  It  was  clear 
that  he  was  half  fearful  of  undertaking  the 
duties  so  unexpectedly  placed  upon  him, 
but  it  was  equally  evident  that  he  desired 
that  this  chance  of  distinguishing  himself 
should  not  be  lost. 

"  We  will  hope,"  he  said,  "that  we  shall 
not  need  his  aid." 

Annette  glanced  up  as  the  two  men  en 
tered  the  room. 

"  Doctor  Stilphin,"  said  Oldys,  in  the  low 
tone  in  which  he  had  before  spoken  to  his 
daughter, 

Annette  looked  questioning! y  at  the  man 
upon  whom  so  much — so  much  that  seemed 
absolutely  vital  to  her — depended.  That  his 
appearance  did  not  wholly  satisfy  her  was 
evident,  for  a  quick  look,  that  would  per 
haps  have  been  simply  one  of  impatience 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  but  which 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  raised  to  an 
intensity  almost  expressing  dislike,  swept 
across  her  face. 

Stilphin  stepped  to  the  window  and  drew 
back  one  of  the  curtains  ,  the  excluded  light 


178  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

rioted  in  with  unchecked  license.  As  it  hap 
pened,  the  clear,  strong  rays  fell  upon  the 
bed,  revealing  Daryl's  perfect  head  and 
body.  The  power  of  his  beauty  had  always 
been  remarkable,  for  it  was  of  that  attrac 
tive,  appealing  character  in  which  there  is 
still  no  loss  of  manly  characteristics,  and  its 
effect  upon  Stilphin  was  now  evident  and 
instantaneous.  He  looked  at  the  man  ly 
ing  before  him  with  sympathetic  attention 
and  quickened  interest. 

Suddenly,  as  if  the  light  had  some  reviv 
ing  power,  the  indescribable  evidence  of  a 
struggling  and  returning  consciousness  ap 
peared  in  the  face.  Though  there  was  no 
absolute  return  of  color,  there  seemed  to 
come  a  mysterious,  indeterminate  change  of 
hue  over  the  pallid  skin.  Daryl  raised  his 
hand  weakly,  unsteadily,  to  his  head,  and 
breathed  more  easily  and  naturally ,  then 
he  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  With  a  quick 
cry  Annette  sprang  to  her  feet  and  bent 
over  him.  Daryl  seemed  to  recognize  her 
and  smiled  faintly — only  with  a  quick  loos 
ening  of  the  lips,  but  still  with  something 
of  the  sweetness  of  expression  that  so  easily 
won  men's  favor  and  women's  hearts. 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF   LIFE 


179 


"  You  are  not  dead,"  she  almost  whis 
pered  in  wonder  and  in  awe. 

The  smile,  if  it  could  be  called  a  smile, 
appeared  again ;  quick  and  fleeting  as  be 
fore,  but  now  a  little  more  clearly  marked. 
Still  he  did  not  speak. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  see,"  said  Stilphin, 
gently. 

Annette  stepped  slowly  away. 

Bending  down,  the  doctor,  with  the  deft 
ness  of  skill  and  the  despatch  of  experi 
ence,  commenced  the  usual  medical  exami 
nation.  Feeling  here,  listening  there,  and 
all  the  time  watching  the  dull,  staring  eyes 
in  the  white  face,  he  went  on  with  his  work, 
the  girl  following  his  every  motion  in  ago 
nized  expectation,  in  unrelieved  apprehen 
sion. 

The  doctor's  ear,  close  to  the  mouth  of 
the  injured  man,  caught  a  low,  sibilant 
sound.  It  was  so  slight  that  no  one  but 
he.  placed  as  he  was,  could  hear  it.  With 
the  instinctive  discretion  that  makes  a  phy 
sician  a  diplomat,  he  did  not  appear  to  no 
tice  it;  still,  in  quick  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  Daryl  wished  to  speak  to  him  he 


iSo  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIVE 

nodded  his  head  quickly.  He  felt,  rather 
than  saw,  that  the  struggling  lips  again 
moved.  He  bent  lower.  In  his  position 
Stilphin  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  slight 
est  respiration,  the  least  articulation  ;  listen 
ing  eagerly,  he  first  distinguished  a  syllable, 
then  a  word,  finally  a  broken  sentence. 

"  A  mo — a  moment — alone,"  whispered 
Daryl,  in  what  might  have  seemed  only  a 
long-drawn  breathing. 

"Mrs.  Daryl,"  said  Stilphin,  with  an  air 
of  greater  confidence  than  he  had  hitherto 
shown,  "you  need  rest.  You  had  better 
leave  us." 

"  I  have  not  left  him,"  she  answered, 
firmly.  "I  will  not  leave  him  now." 

"Annette,"  remonstrated  Oldys. 

"  Let  me  stay  with  him  while  he  lives," 
she  continued,  her  voice  changing  from  a 
tone  of  disdainful  decision  to  one  of  abject 
supplication.  "  He  may  die  in  the  next 
moment  —  he  maybe  dying  now.  Let  me 
stay  and — " 

Daryl  turned  his  head  in  her  direction, 
took  her  right  hand  in  his  and  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  then  let  it  fall  with  a  look  that 
was  almost  a  dismissal  and  a  farewell. 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 


iSl 


The  girl  turned  slowly  away,  tears  filling 
her  eyes  for  the  first  time. 

"  You  too  had  best  go,"  said  Stilphin  to 
Oldys.  "  You  are  most  needed  by  your 
daughter." 

Oldys  did  not  hesitate  ,  his  real  interest 
was  with  his  child.  He  stepped  beside 
Annette,  as  she  cast  one  quick,  backward 
look  at  Daryl  to  see  if  he  might  not  yet  re 
call  her  banishment,  and  together  they  left 
the  room.  As  the  door  closed  Stilphin  re 
sumed  his  former  attitude,  leaning  anxiously 
over  the  still  motionless  man.  Almost  as  if 
breaking  away  from  some  restraining  phys 
ical  grasp,  Daryl  seemed  to  free  his  intelli 
gence  from  its  obscurity. 

"I  have  been  hurt,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
grown  stronger,  but  still  weak  and  husky. 
"  Shall  I  live  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Stilphin  after 
an  instant's  hesitation. 

"  You  can  tell  me,"  said  Daryl,  calmly. 
"  I  can  bear  it." 

The  doctor  did  not  answer. 

"  Then  I  am  dying,"  continued  Daryl, 
now  in  almost  his  habitual  tone.  "  I  felt  it 


182  IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE 

with  my  first  consciousness,  and  wished  to 
speak  to  you  alone." 

Stilphin  bowed. 

"  I  am  in  great  pain,"  Daryl  went  on,  "  I 
can  hardly  breathe,  but  there  is  something 
I  must  do  or  have  done  before  I  die.  You 
can  do  more  for  me  in  aiding  me  in  this 
than  in  helping  me  to  a  few  more  hours  of 
life." 

"  My  professional  duty — " 

"A  physician's  duty  is  to  his  patient, 
not  to  himself,"  interrupted  Daryl,  impa 
tiently.  "  I  tell  you  that  you  can  help 
me  in  other  ways  more  than  you  can  with 
bandages  or  medicines." 

Stilphin  stood  irresolute. 

"  There  is  little  time  left  to  me,"  Daryl 
went  on.  A  new  quality  had  come  into 
his  voice ;  that  strange,  vibrant  ring  that 
commands  attention  and  obedience  ;  that 
stress  that,  heard  in  battle,  can  rally  a  reg 
iment  or  hold  a  forlorn  hope  to  its  pur 
pose  ;  that  intonation  that,  wherever  men 
are  gathered,  impresses  and  sways  more 
than  rounded  phrase  or  incontrovertible 
logic  ;  that  inflection  that,  coming  in  a  love- 


IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  183 

story,  surely  wins  its  way.  "Will  you  do 
what  I  wish  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Stilphin.  He  was  young 
inexperienced,  obscure,  and  it  was  difficult 
for  him  to  assert  himself  even  in  his  pro 
fessional  capacity. 

"  I  may  die  at  any  minute,"  continued 
Daryl ,  "  no  one  else  can  do  for  me  what  I 
must  have  done.  I  must  trust  you." 

Daryl  hesitated  for  a  moment,  looking  up 
almost  beseechingly  now  at  the  doubtful 
man  before  him. 

"  I  only  ask  you  to  write  a  few  lines,"  he 
said.  "  See  that  they  are  sent  to  the  ad 
dress  that  I  will  give  you,  and  keep  all  that 
is  done  —  all  that  is  written  —  as  secret  as 
you  would,  if  you  had  it,  the  knowledge  of 
your  own  damnation." 

The  doctor  did  not  move  or  speak. 

"  A  physician  is  like  a  priest,"  said 
Daryl ,  "  what  is  told  to  him,  what  he 
learns,  is  guarded  as  closely  as  anything 
heard  in  the  confessional." 

"  Yes." 

"  Go  to  the  table,"  commanded  Daryl. 
"  There  are  paper  and  pen  and  ink.  Write 
as  I  tell  you." 


184  IN    THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE 

Obediently  as  if  under  hypnotic  influ 
ence  Stilphin  walked  to  the  writing-table 
and  seated  himself  before  it. 

The  silence  was  for  a  moment  unbroken 
by  the  speech  of  either  man  ;  a  bee  that 
had  strayed  in  from  the  gardens  and  that 
now  buzzed  drowsily  along  an  upper  window- 
pane  made  the  only  sound  that  could  be 
heard  in  the  room. 

"Isabel." 

Daryl's  voice,  coining  hesitatingly,  faint 
ly,  seemed  to  linger  and  then  be  lost  in 
the  stillness.  Stilphin  looked  up,  amazed, 
fearful,  doubtful  as  to  what  he  should  do. 

"Write,"  commanded  Daryl. 

Stilphin  bent  over  the  paper  and  hastily 
traced  the  name  he  had  hardly  heard. 

"  I  am  dying,"  continued  Daryl,  in  hur 
ried  but  resolute  tone,  the  tone  of  one  who 
has  much  to  do  and  but  little  time  in  which 
to  do  it.  "  I  have  been  unconscious  for 
hours.  My  first  thought  when  I  again 
awoke  to  the  world  was  of  you,  as  my 
first  thought  will  be  of  you  when  I  awake — 
if  there  is  awaking  —  in  another."  He 
hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  went  on  in  a 


IN    THE   MIDST   OF    LIFE  185 

voice  now  weaker,  now  stronger,  now  duller, 
now  clearer,  now  harshly  mocking,  now 
despairing,  but  always  steadfast,  relentless, 
inflexible.  "  I  am  dying,  and  I  leave  you 
my  curse  and  my  blessing,  my  hatred  and 
my  love.  I  have  loved  you ;  I  did  not  think 
ever  to  say  it,  but  I  love  you  now.  I 
have  always  returned  to  you,  and  now  it  is 
for  the  last  time.  You  know  how  long  I 
have  kept  to  my  oath ;  you  have  not  even 
heard  from  me  since  my  engagement  to 
Annette  Oldys.  What  led  to  that  engage 
ment  you  do  not  know.  I  made  that  mar 
riage  only  that  I  might  remain  near  you. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  shamefully 
dishonorable.  I  knew  it ;  still,  I  did  not 
hesitate.  I  had  a  name  the  world  respected. 
I  was  thought  rich  ;  I  was  well-looking  —  I 
easily  won  the  friendship  of  men,  the  love 
of  women.  But  no  one  knew  the  truth — 
not  even  you.  In  a  few  years  I  became 
— what  ?  A  gambler — not  for  the  natural 
excitement  of  play,  but  from  the  mere 
desire  to  gain  —  a  liar,  a  cheat,  a  scoun 
drel.  Finally  all  was  gone.  I  might  be  dis 
graced.  I  loved  you.  I  was  hard-pressed, 


186  IN    THE   MIDST   OF    LIFE 

threatened,  in  danger.  I  knew  that  poverty 
even  more  than  disgrace  would  remove  me 
from  you.  I  became  engaged  to  Annette 
Oldys.  I  was  ruined  and  she  was  rich.  As 
one  thinking  only  of  gain  I  had  approached 
her,  seeking  only  her  money — money  that 
would  enable  me  to  hold  my  position  in  my 
world  and  remain  near  you.  I  at  first 
thought  of  her  with  indifference,  almost 
with  pity.  I  had  seen  her  a  quiet,  shy  girl, 
moving  through  life  half  fearful  of  herself 
and  others,  timid  and  abashed  by  the  con 
sciousness  of  her  immense  wealth.  I  did  not 
know  her  then  ;  soon,  however,  I  began  to 
understand  what — how  much  —  she  really 
is.  I  learned  that  she  loved  me ;  learned 
how  such  a  one  as  she  could  love ;  learned 
for  the  first  time  what  love  really  is.  I 
say  she  loved  me  ;  she  loved  rather  the  being 
she  thought  I  was,  as  she  now  loves  the  being 
she  thinks  I  am — for  to  her  the  vision  and 
the  being  are  one.  It  may  be  through  the 
kindness  of  an  all-foreseeing  God  that  I 
am  to  die.  My  death  will  pain  her  for  a 
time,  but  what  she  thinks  me  to  be  will  al 
ways  live  in  her  very  heart  and  soul,  and 


IN    TPIE    MIDST   OF    LIFE  187 

she  will  be  happy  with  that  memory.  If 
I — the  I  that  I  am — had  lived  you  know 
what  would  have  happened.  I  have  not 
seen  you  for  months;  what  little  of  honor 
there  was  left  in  me  seemed,  in  her  pres 
ence,  to  return  to  me  and  bid  me  forget 
you — but  I  must  have  seen  you  soon.  For 
months  I  have  been  strong,  fighting  with 
myself  as  I  thought  I  had  not  the  power 
to  fight  for  anything  right ;  but  during  the 
last  few  days  I  have  felt  the  old  weakness 
of  purpose  that  always  brought  me  back 
to  you.  If  I  had  lived  I  could  not  have 
helped  it.  I  should  have  gone  back  to 
you  —  you  would  have  given  me  double 
welcome,  because  my  return  would  have 
brought  you  two  victims  instead  of  one. 
Annette  would  have  known  the  truth  about 
me,  and  then  she  would  really  have  lost  me. 
As  it  is,  I  shall  die  and  she  will  never  know, 
and  will  be  happy  in  that  ignorance." 

Daryl  had  hesitated  frequently  in  his  dic 
tation,  waiting  for  strength  to  go  on  ;  now 
he  drew  his  hand  feebly  across  his  eyes  and 
the  pause  was  long. 

"  I  send  this  letter  to  the  old  address," 


ISS  IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE 

he  continued  at  length  and  even  more  has 
tily,  as  if  fearful  that  his  strength  would  not 
permit  him  to  finish.  "  I  hope  it  will  reach 
you.  I  am  too  weak  to  write  ;  another  has 
written  for  me."  He  stopped  and  asked 
abruptly,  "  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Stilphin,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  If  you  receive  this  letter,"  continued 
Daryl,  "  and  if,  after  a  year,  you  have  heard 
nothing  further,  send  a  thousand  dollars — 
five  thousand — what  you  will,  to  Doctor 
Stilphin,  at  Barborough,  in  this  State.  You 
will  see  that  this  is  done — so  much  you 
can  do  for  me." 

Again  Daryl  paused. 

"  I  could  not  die  without  letting  you 
know  what  I  have  done,  what  I  have  suf 
fered —  for  you.  I  do  not  expect  that  you 
will  love  me  the  more  for  it  or  remember 
me  the  longer,  but  the  knowledge  that  I 
now  give  you  of  my  torture  is  my  supremest 
homage  —  rny  final  tribute.  I  know  best 
what  will  please  you,  and  I  lay  my  agony 
at  your  feet  that  you  may  exult  in  its  mem 
ory.  I  shall  die.  It  will  be  for  the  best. 
I  shall  die.  You  will  forget  me ;  Annette 


IN    THE   MIDST   OF    LIFE  189 

will  remember  me ;  and  I  —  if  thought  is 
possible — shall  think  of  you  as  I  have  al 
ways  thought  of  you,  shall  forget  her  as  I 
have  always  forgotten  her." 

His  voice  had  greatly  weakened,  was 
almost  gone,  and  he  fell  back  heavily. 

"  Seal  it,"  he  murmured.  "Address  it — " 
and  his  voice  was  so  low  that  the  doctor 
bent  over  him  to  catch  his  words.  Then 
again  he  seemed  for  a  moment  to  rally 
and  went  on,  "Bring  it  here  —  under  my 
pillow — and  when  I  am  dead — " 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words  all  sem 
blance  of  life  \vas  lost.  Stilphin  sprang  to 
the  bed  and  again  bent  over  him. 

Although  the  shadows  are  pointing  their 
fingers  towards  the  east  —  beckoning,  it 
might  almost  seem,  to  the  night  —  the  heat 
is  as  great,  the  silence  as  absolute,  as  at 
noon.  The  mass  of  sunlight  on  the  floor, 
however,  is  slightly  yellower,  and  a  single 
bird  with  some  sense  of  the  approach  of 
evening  has  ventured  from  the  drowsy  grove 
and  now  twitters  near  the  open  window. 
To  Oldys  and  Annette  in  the  hall  beyond 


IQO  IN    THE    MIDST   OF    LIFE 

the  closed  door  behind  which  Daryl  lies, 
the  time,  short  though  it  has  been,  has 
seemed  endless.  Now  and  again  they  have 
looked  at  each  other  with  anxious  eyes ; 
now  and  again  they  have  moved  in  sloth- 
like  action ;  silent — in  expectation  so  in 
tense  as  to  make  them  appear  almost  stolid. 

At  last  the  door  opens  and  Stilphin  ap 
pears  upon  the  threshold. 

"  Is — is  he  dead  ?"  asked  Annette,  almost 
creeping  forward  from  the  place  where  she 
had  knelt  beside  her  father,  and  speaking 
as  she  might  in  the  presence  of  some  one 
asleep. 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  slowly.  "  He  is 
not  dead.  He  will  not  die.  He  will 
live." 

By  one  of  those  seemingly  causeless 
actions  of  the  mind,  the  words  that  Felix 
Olclys  had  read  that  morning,  haltingly 
returned  to  him.  "  Know  then  that  there 
are  tragedies  greater  than  those  that  end 
in  death.  .  .  .  Man  is  given  here  but  little 
time  to  live  and  in  that  time  works  much 
evil.  Is  not  this  rather  the  grievous  thing, 


IN    THE   MIDST   OF   LIFE  igi 

that  life  should  continue,  and  that  the 
harm,  as  is  the  nature  of  harm,  should  be 
without  end  ?  Tragedy  lies  more  often  in 
the  continuance  of  life  than  in  its  surcease. 
Therefore,  I  enjoin  you,  call  not  a  man's 
death  a  tragedy,  for,  if  he  had  lived,  you 
know  not  what  evil  might  have  been 
wrought." 


A  FLIRT 


A  FLIRT 


"  How  old  are  you?" 

"Mrs.  Tom"  Wychbold  took  a  small  sip 
of  the  tea  that  steamed  in  the  Capo  di 
Monte  cup,  whereon  was  depicted  Danae 
and  the  Shower  of  Gold — one  of  a  set 
that  was  her  last  extravagance  and  her 
latest  pride — then  glanced  carelessly  at  the 
person  to  whom  the  question  was  ad 
dressed. 

"  Twenty-two." 

Dinah  Haye,  biting  off  a  piece  of  bread- 
and-butter,  met  her  gaze  squarely. 

"  And  when  did  you  come  out  ?" 

"  When  I  was  seventeen." 

"  Then  it  is  five  years  since  you  were  a 
'  bud '  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  many  men  have  proposed  to  you  ?" 


I96  A    FLIRT 

"  I  should  say  ten  or  a  dozen — that  is 
out  and  out,  you  know." 

"  Say  a  dozen  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  may  safely  say  a  dozen." 

"  How  many  times  have  you  been  en 
gaged  ?" 

"  Three  times." 

"  The  first  ?" 

"  When  I  was  seventeen." 

"  Before  you  came  out  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  next  ?" 

"  When  I  was  nineteen,  and  again  when 
I  was  twenty." 

"  Why  was  the  first  broken  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  a  perfect  baby  and  didn't 
know  any  more  than  to  get  into  it." 

"  And  the  second  ?" 

"  Because  he  was  very  nice  and  I  was 
horribly  bored  in  the  country,  and — well, 
when  I  got  to  town  I  thought  better  of  it." 

"  And  the  third  ?" 

"  Because  he  was  very  rich  and  every 
woman  tried  to  marry  him ;  but  when  I 
found  I  could,  I  really  didn't  want  to  do  it." 

"  Dinah,  you're  a  flirt." 


A    FLIRT  197 

"  I  know  it." 

"  Dinah,"  said  Mrs.  Wychbold,  as  se 
verely  as  it  was  possible  for  her  ever  to 
say  anything,  "you  are  really  a  very  shock 
ing  person." 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  that." 

"At  least'you  acknowledge  that  you  are 
a  coquette." 

"  Yes." 

The  animated  and  somewhat  pointed 
dialogue  here  recorded  took  place  in  Mrs. 
Wychbold's  pet  withdrawing -room,  where, 
at  five  o'clock,  the  arcana  of  afternoon-tea 
always  awaited  the  initiate,  and  where  "  Mrs. 
Tom"  and  Dinah  Haye — her  guest — the 
only  votaries  at  that  solemn  ceremonial 
on  this  occasion  present,  were  seated.  The 
light  had  nearly  disappeared  from  the  dull 
January  sky,  and  the  room  had  become  quite 
dark  —  so  dark  that  even  the  small  lamp 
burning  under  the  kettle  of  hot  water  cast  an 
orange  glow  on  the  little  table  that  bore  the 
tea-things.  No  sound  but  the  gentle  purr  of 
the  escaping  steam  and  the  genial  crackle  of 
the  blazing  wood  broke  the  silence  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  Mrs.  Wychbold  spoke  again. 


I 98  A    FLIRT 

"  Dinah,"  she  asked,  remonstrantly,  "  why 
will  you  do  this  ?" 

"  Do  what  ?" 

"  Flirt." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?" 

"  I  know,"  conceded  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  "  that 
I  shouldn't  think,  on  general  principles,  any 
more  of  a  girl  who  wouldn't  flirt — a  little, 
on  occasion — than  I  should  of  a  man  who 
wouldn't  fight." 

"  Well  then  ?"   Miss  Haye  observed. 

"  But  you  don't  do  it  a  little,  you  do  it  a 
great  deal — all  the  time — invariably." 

"  Suppose  I  do  ?" 

"There's  sure  to  be  trouble — if  not  for 
others,  then  serious  harm  to  yourself  —  if 
you  keep  on." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  answered 
Dinah,  stubbornly. 

"  It  is  sure  to  be  so,"  urged  "  Mrs.  Tom." 
"  I  suppose,"  she  added,  "  that  you  intend 
to  marry  some  day." 

"I  have,"  answered  Miss  Haye,  "every 
intention  of  entering  upon  the  holy  state 
of  matrimony — indeed,  I  am  going  to  take 
particular  care  that  I  do." 


'THE  ROOM   HAD   BECOME  QUITE   DARK. 


A    FLIRT  199 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Wychbold,  triumphant 
ly,  "  what  man  do  you  think  will  ever  care 
about  marrying  you  when  you've  been  car 
rying  on — throwing  yourself  away  on  the 
dozens  of  others  that  you  have  ?" 

"Dozens?"  responded  Dinah,  critically; 
"  that's  liberal,  even  lavish  ;  but  I  pass  it 
by,  knowing  as  I  do  the  usual  luxuriance 
of  your  descriptions.  I  maintain,  however, 
that  many  a  man  of  sense  will  be  very  glad 
to  marry  me  in  spite  of  all  that — perhaps 
even  because  of  all  that." 

"  Merciful  heavens  !"  cried  Mrs.  Wych 
bold,  dismayed  by  such  ample  confidence 
and  such  utter  degeneracy,  "what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,  my  dear  Constance,"  said  Miss 
Haye,  calmly,  "  that  I  have  come,  through 
time  and  experience,  to  know  something 
about  the  world  and,  what  is  more,  the 
men  who  live  in  it,  and  I  assure  you  that 
any  one  who  succeeds  in  winning  my  smiles 
—  I  believe  that  is  quite  the  sanctified 
phrase — will  do  something  of  which  he  may 
be  proud.  I  mean  that  I  have  discrimi 
nation,  powers  of  comparison  —  have,  in 


200  A    FLIRT 

short,  a  standard,  which  no  girl  who  has 
not  gone  through  what  I  have,  can  possi 
bly  possess.  Now,  I  tell  you,  men  of  sense 
have  sense  enough  to  realize  this — that  is, 
nice  men,  men  who  are  '  worth  while ' — and 
they  therefore  find  me  more  attractive,  more 
satisfactory,  than  the  pretty,  petty  little 
prude  who  came  out  yesterday,  and  who 
would  receive  another,  to  whom  they  would 
hardly  take  the  trouble  to  nod  in  their 
club,  as  well  as  she  would  them.  Don't  you 
suppose  that  they  want  their  worth  recog 
nized  ?  I'm  an  expert,  and  my  approba 
tion  means  appraisal  at  their  own  valua 
tion.  That's  the  reason  that  they  would 
rather  have  me  care  for  them  than  any 
mere  'bud'  or  guarded  hot-house  blossom 
who  will  fall  in  love  with  the  first  idiot  who 
comes  along." 

"  And  you  think  that  men  like  a  flirt  ?" 
"  I  think  they — that  is,  those  who  are 
worth  anything — like  women  who  can  un 
derstand  and  appreciate  them,  and  that,  I 
am  sure,  few  of  your  rigidly  reserved  and 
rigorously  respected  damsels,  who  have 
never  talked  unchaperoned  to  any  man  ex- 


A    FLIRT  201 

cept  their  own  brothers,  can  ever  do." 
She  spoke  with  a  certain  fiery  vigor,  and 
then  breaking  for  a  moment  into  low  laugh 
ter  at  her  own  earnestness,  she  added, 
"  Besides,  the  day  of  the  '  'aughty  Imo- 
gene'  has  gone  by." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Wychbold. 

"  I  mean  that  nowadays  men  don't  want 
to  think  of  women  as  if  they  were  enshrined 
saints  or  pedestalled  goddesses.  I  don't 
know  whether  we  or  they  have  changed, 
or  whether  it  is  that  we  as  a  race  have 
lived  in  the  world  so  long  that  we  don't 
feel  such  strangers  to  one  another.  I  don't 
know  what  a  ' parfait  knight '  or  a  ' preux 
chevalier"1  may  have  felt,  but  I  know  that 
any  man  of  this,  of  our  generation,  would 
vote  a  woman  a  bore  who,  after  years  of 
devotion,  would  only  drop  him  a  flower 
from  some  lofty  battlement  or,  after  sea 
sons  of  attention,  would  only  concede  to 
him  the  right  to  kiss  the  pink  nail  on  her 
little  finger  ;  he  would  ride  or  walk  away 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  her.  Our  men 


202  A    FLIRT 

may  have  been  spoiled — I  don't  know  ;  but 
we've  got  to  take  them  as  we  find  them,  or 
not  take  them  at  all." 

"  Dinah,"  said  Mrs.  Wychbold,  "  you 
shock  me  very  much." 

"  I  know,"  Dinah  went  on  with  some  bit 
terness,  "  there  are  a  great  many  old  la 
dies  who  don't  think  me  '  nice  ' ;  a  number 
of  very  sweetly  inoffensive  girls  who  don't 
consider  me  'proper';  some  very  worthy 
mothers  of  families  who  would  be  glad  to 
call  me  '  not  respectable,'  but  I  cannot  help 
it,  for  I  cannot  help  my  education  or  my 
age.  I — "  and  again  she  laughed  her  soft, 
sweet,  indulgent  laugh,  "I  am  a. product" 

"I  am  glad,  Dinah,"  said  Mrs.  Wych 
bold,  "  to  know  so  accurately  what  you 
are.  I  was  always  a  little  doubtful." 

"  I  never  could  have  existed  at  any  other 
time,"  went  on  Miss  Haye ;  "  there  wasn't 
any  place  for  me.  I  should  have  scandal 
ized  your  mother  and  horrified  your  grand 
mother,  while  you — you  love  me,  don't  you, 
Constance,  dear  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  "Mrs.  Tom,"  reluc 
tantly.  "  I'm  afraid  that  I  do." 


A    FLIRT  203 

"  That's  because  we're  of  the  same  day 
— speak  the  same  language,  or  rather  the 
same  dialect,  and  are  influenced  by  nearly 
the  same  motives,  modistes,  and  men — for, 
my  dear  '  Mrs.  Tom,'  "  said  Dinah,  with  sud 
denly  assumed  formality,  "you  know  that 
they  say  you  are  '  fast '  too." 

"  I  know  it,"  admitted  Mrs.  Wychbold, 
"  although  I  could  never  understand  why." 

"  What  chance  would  there  be  for  me  if 
I  were  not  what  I  am  ?"  continued  Miss 
Haye  with  greater  seriousness.  "  Every 
one  has  to  be  pronounced  to-day  to  be 
prominent ;  one  must  be  characteristic,  even 
if  one  hasn't  character  —  and  I  am  only 
a  little  more  pronounced,  more  character 
istic,  than  another — have  all  the  'points' 
of  my  class,  so  to  speak.  You — they — 
may  think  the  class  deplorable,  but  I'm 
really  not  so  much  to  blame  if  I  do  belong 
to  it.  I  always  had  to  fight  my  own  bat 
tles.  I  never  have  had  chances  but  those 
I  made  myself,  and  if  people  think  that 
an  American  girl  with  the  blood  of  a  self- 
made  American  father  in  her  veins  and 
the  spirit  of  a  nervous  American  mother 


204  A    FLIRT 

in  her  heart  is  not  going  to  be  ambitious, 
isn't  going  to  try  and  '  get  on,'  they  shut 
their  eyes  on  all  the  teachings  of  science 
and  absolutely  disregard  the  great  doctrine 
of  heredity.  Oh,  if  I  were  Cynthia  Leigh, 
for  example,  with  her  pale,  pretty  eyes,  her 
dull  yellow  hair,  her  pink-and-white  com 
plexion,  and  her  many,  many  millions,  I 
don't  know  but  what  I  might  have  been 
as  ignorant,  as  helpless,  as — as  'respected' 
as  she ;  but  I  have  had  to  trust  to  the  at 
tractiveness  of  my  own  brown  eyes — you 
know  you  always  said  that  I  had  '  honest 
eyes' — and  so,  naturally,  I  have  made  the 
most  of  my  few  advantages.  I  may  have 
'  pushed  '  and  I  may  have  '  struggled ' — 
strange  that  what  is  considered  a  merit  in 
an  American  man  is  something  for  condem 
nation  in  an  American  girl — but  I  will  tell 
you  one  thing,  Constance  Wychbold,  and 
that  is  that  I  never  have  had  a  bit  of  a 
flirtation — I  hate  the  word  as  much  as  any 
one — when  I  didn't  put  some  of  my  heart 
in  it,  mistakenly  though  it  may  have  been. 
And  I  will  tell  you  another  thing,  and  that 
is  that  a  girl  never  can  know  anything 


A    FLIRT  205 

about  a  man  if  she  doesn't  flirt  with 
him." 

"  But,"  asked  Mrs.  Wychbold,  "  is  it  dig 
nified,  is  it  self-respecting  ?" 

"  Dignified  ?"  cried  Miss  Haye,  her  fresh, 
strong,  young  voice  becoming  in  tone  still 
more  elevated.  "With  their  'dignity'  and 
'self-respect' women  have  managed  to  lose 
the  position  they  ought  really  to  hold. 
Nature  never  intended  that  things  should 
be  managed  the  way  they  are.  Why,  Con 
stance,  I  was  reading  in  a  book  the  other 
day  that  the  reason  why  masculinity  among 
the  birds  of  the  air,  the  beasts  of  the  field, 
and  the  fishes  of  the  sea  gets  itself  up 
so  '  regardless '  is  simply  to  find  favor  with 
the  dear,  darling  femininities  of  their  own 
kind.  Now,  how  is  it  with  us  ?  Are  not 
we  the  ones  to  array  ourselves  in  the  most 
gorgeous  habiliments  merely  that  we  may 
gratify  and  attract  our  fellow-men  ?  Is  this 
right  ?  Are  not  the  purposes  of  an  all-wise 
and  provident  nature  clearly  perverted  ? 
And  how  has  this  happened  ?  It  has  hap 
pened  because  woman  has  tacitly  yielded 
up  her  right  of  '  selection,'  and  merely 


206  A    FLIRT 

taken  her  place  in  the  ranks  of  those  to 
be  chosen  from."  Miss  Haye  paused  to 
laugh  at  her  own  eagerness.  'You  blame 
me,  and  yet  you  see  I  refer  to  nature.  I 
do  more  consciously,  and  perhaps  more 
conscientiously,  what  all  my  little  sisters 
are  doing  more  or  less  blindly ;  for,  after 
all,  every  sensible  person  knows  that  women 
make  love  just  as  much  as  men — only  per 
haps  in  another  way." 

"  Oh,  Dinah  !"  remonstrated  "  Mrs. 
Tom." 

"  You  cannot  deny,"  continued  Miss 
Haye,  "  that  you  let  Tom  Wychbold  know 
that  you  thought  he  was  charming  long  be 
fore  he  offered  you  his  heart  and  hand." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  "  Mrs.  Tom," 
"  but  I  never  made  love  to  him." 

"  La  Rochefoucauld  omitted  to  remark," 
said  Miss  Haye,  sententiously,  "  that  the 
woman  who  permits  a  man  to  make  love 
to  her  is  after  her  own  fashion  making 
love  to  him." 

Mrs.  Wychbold  carefully  deposited  her 
cup  on  the  table,  and  then  sank  back  in 
her  chair  softly  laughing. 


A    FLIRT  207 

"  Dinah,"  she  said,  "  I  never  saw  you 
excited.  Why,  you  are  actually  angry." 

"  It  is  the  accumulated  indignation  of 
years,"  answered  Miss  Haye,  speaking 
again  with  her  low,  sweet,  mocking  drawl. 
"  But  didn't  you  say  something  about  the 
cards  for  the  dinner-table  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Wychbold,  "  won't 
you  write  them  ?  I'm  so  frozen  that  I'm 
going  to  hug  the  fire.  I  could  envy  the 
fate  of  a  martyr  at  the  stake." 

Miss  Haye  sat  down  before  "  Mrs. 
Tom's"  inlaid  unbusiness-like  desk  with 
a  very  business-like  air. 

"  Who's  coming  ?"  she  demanded,  with 
doubtful  English,  but  purposeful  energy. 

"  Ruth  Redmond  and  Harold,"  said 
Mrs.  Wychbold. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dinah  as  she  wrote. 

"  Frank  Nesbitt." 

"  I  do  dislike  him,"  commented  Miss 
Haye. 

"  I  am  sorry  my  guest  isn't  happy  in 
pleasing  you,"  responded  "Mrs.  Tom"; 
"but  between  ourselves  I  don't  like  him 
very  much  myself." 


208  A   FLIRT 

"  I  don't  care  for  that  instructive  kind 
of  man,"  said  Dinah,  "  and  then  he  does 
fancy  himself  such  a  lot." 

"  But  you  know  he  is  very  intellectual, 
and  Cynthia  and  he  will  get  on  capitally." 

"  Poor  lamb,"  said  Miss  Haye ;  "  she'll 
drink  of  the  troubled  waters  of  his  elo 
quence  and  think  it  is  a  divine  draught." 

"  She's  old  enough  to  look  out  for  her 
self." 

"  Yes,  she's  old  enough,"  answered  Miss 
Haye,  "but  she's  exactly  the  kind  I've 
been  talking  about :  she  doesn't  know  her 
self  or  anybody  else.  She's  just  the  sort 
that  some  wolf  will  gobble  up,  millions  and 
all — or  millions  and  nothing." 

"  I  hope  you'll  get  on  together,"  said 
"  Mrs.  Tom,"  anxiously. 

"Oh,"  responded  Miss  Haye,  "she'll 
think  I'm  'horrid'  and  'unladylike'  and 
all  the  rest ;  but  I  don't  believe  we'll  quite 
tear  each  other's  eyes  out.  You  know  that 
I  couldn't  afford  to  run  the  risk  of  losing 
mine." 

"  She  comes  on  the  five-thirty  train," 
said  Mrs.  Wychbold,  glancing  at  the  clock. 


A    FLIRT  20g 

"  I  hope  she'll  be  in  time  for  dinner  at 
half-past  seven." 

"  Next,"  added  Miss  Haye,  and  she 
again  disposed  herself  for  further  calli 
graphic  efforts. 

"  Milnes  Desborough,"  said  Mrs.  Wych- 
bold. 

As  Dinah  wrote  this  name  on  the  small 
bit  of  card-board  before  her  she  bent  her 
head  very  low  over  the  table.  Certainly 
the  night  had  shut  in  suddenly  and  the 
room  was  really  dark. 

"I  observe,"  said  "Mrs.  Tom,"  criti 
cally,  "  that  you  do  not  say  anything." 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Dinah,  looking  up 
with  an  air  of  innocent  unconsciousness 
that  would  have  utterly  deceived  a  less 
experienced  person  than  her  hostess;  "is 
there  anything  to  say  ?" 

"  No,  not  in  the  least,"  responded  Mrs. 
Wychbold,  "  certainly  not.  Only,  Dinah, 
I  have  met  people,  and  I  am  convinced 
you  are  one  of  them,  the  extent  of  whose 
thoughts  you  cannot  surely  measure  by  the 
abundance  of  their  expression." 

Miss  Haye  collected  the  cards,  which  she 
14 


210  A    FLIRT 

had  placed  in  a  row  before  her,  into  a  small 
pack  and  shuffled  them  thoughtfully. 

"  I  understand  your  insinuations,  Con 
stance,"  she  said,  "and  scorn  them.  But 
then,  you  know,  what  can  you  expect  ?  I'm 
only  a  flirt." 

"  I  would  tell  you  to  be  careful  only 
Milnes  Desborough  is  old  and  experienced 
enough  in  all  conscience  to  look  out  for 
himself,  and,  moreover,  too  busy  a  person 
to  think  of  such  a  trifling  creature  as  your 
self.  There  are  some  men  who  the  world 
seems  to  decide  off-hand  will  get  on,  and 
he  is  one  of  them.  His  fate  is  to  marry 
money  and  to  become  a  public  character. 
I  feel  it  just  as  much  as  does  the  rest  of 
the  world." 

"  Now  tell  me  all  the  others,"  commanded 
Dinah,  briefly. 

Miss  Haye  rose  a  trifle  languidly  when 
all  the  cards  were  written  ;  then,  returning 
to  the  fire  and  leaning  her  head  against 
the  carved  mantel,  she  looked  curiously  at 
the  blaze. 

"  I  suppose  Cynthia  would  be  just  the 
sort  of  inoffensive  person  such  a  man  would 


A    FLIRT  211 

admire ;  he'd  think  her  so  womanly,  and 
I,  you  know  —  I'm  only  womanish,  and 
that's  so  different." 

Dinah  hesitated. 

"And  she's  so  rich,"  she  went  on. 

"  It  would  be  a  very  proper  match  in  every 
way,"  answered  Mrs.  Wychbold,  decidedly. 

Miss  Haye  drew  her  foot  slowly  along 
the  line  of  the  hearth  and  then  turned 
quickly  towards  the  door. 

"  I  must  go  and  dress,"  she  said,  "  and 
so,  Constance,  must  you." 

II 

In  one  of  the  bow-windows  of  the  An- 
dros  Club  were  seated  two  men ;  the  dusk 
of  the  closing  day  permitting  the  dull  fire 
at  the  end  of  the  cigarette  of  the  one  and 
the  cigar  of  the  other  to  glow  redly  and 
distinctly. 

"Who,  Harold,"  asked  the  older  and 
heavier  of  the  two,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  cigar,  "  is  this  Miss  Dinah  Haye  ?" 

Redmond  laughed. 

"Why,  Milnes,"  he  said,  "you  don't  say 
she's  here  ?" 


212  A   FLIRT 

"  Yes,"  answered  Desborough,  "  at  '  Mrs. 
Tom's.'  " 

"  Well,"  said  his  companion,  "  she's  a 
young  person  who  has  flirted  her  way  over 
two  continents  and  through  five  seasons, 
and  who — 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  but — who  is  she — 
where  does  she  come  from — to  whom  does 
she  belong  ?" 

"  She's  the  daughter  of  a  man,  dead  now, 
who  in  his  time  was  one  of  the  most  promi 
nent  lawyers  of  Arapago.  Lived  well  and 
died  poor.  You  know  the  kind — a  little 
politics  and  a  large  house,  a  turn  for  specu 
lation  and  a  fancy  for  horseflesh.  Dinah, 
when  she  was  a  small  child,  romped  through 
the  parlors  of  every  watering-place  hotel 
in  the  country  with  the  dress  of  a  little 
millionnairess  ;  but  when  her  father  dropped 
off  there  wasn't  even  money  enough  to 
keep  her  at  the  swell  school  where  she 
then  was.  However,  things  looked  up  a 
bit  afterwards  ;  the  widow  moved  into  a 
small  house,  gathered  up  the  odds  and 
ends,  and  there's  been  sufficient  to  send 
the  boy  to  college  and  keep  Miss  Dinah 


A    FLIRT  213 

scampering  over  the  old  world  and  the 
new  since  she  was  seventeen." 

"  But — "  began  Desborough. 

"  She's  an  institution,"  continued  Red 
mond,  warming  up  to  his  subject.  "  Why, 
at  Homburg,  when  I  was  there  two  seasons 
ago,  she  was  the  rage.  They  called  her 
'  Roulette,'  because,  they  said,  '  you  never 
knew  where  she'd  stop ' ;  but  I — as  a  com 
patriot — who'd  seen  her  like  before,  under 
stood  that  she  knew  very  well  where  to 
stop  and  what  she  was  about.  I'm  not 
sure  but  I  was  rather  in  love  with  her  my 
self,  although  we'd  been  together  a  summer 
at  Narragansettwhen  her  dresses  only  came 
to  the  top  of  her  shoes  and  she  was  the 
wildest  little  piece  that  ever  looked  like 
a  Yankee  Greuze  and  talked  as  nearly  as 
she  knew  how  like  an  American  Gavroche. 
To  me  even,  who'd  been  brought  up  with 
that  kind  all  my  life,  she  was  a  revelation, 
and  a  certain  royal  personage  said  that 
although  he  thought  it  was  no  longer  in 
the  power  of  America  to  surprise  him,  she 
had  done  it." 

"  Then,"  said  Desborough,  "  I  have  been 


214  A    FLIRT 

entertaining  an  angel  unawares,  for  I  sat 
out  three  dances  with  her  last  night  and 
didn't  realize  her  peculiar  greatness." 

"  Three  dances  out !  That's  more  than  I 
ever  saw  her  give  the  heaviest  guardsman." 

"  Really  !"  responded  Desborough,  with 
a  visibly  satisfied  laugh;  "you  see  I'm  not 
quite  a  pensioner  on  the  good  -  humor  of 
the  gay  world." 

"But  take  care,"  went  on  Redmond. 
"  You  must  know  she's  the  most  danger 
ous  little  flirt  that  ever  stood  on  heels 
two  inches  high." 

"  I  don't  think,"  answered  his  friend, 
"  that  you  need  have  any  particular  fear 
about  me.  You  know  I'm  old -fogy  and 
old-fashioned,  and  she's  not  my  style  at 
all.  It  was  pleasant  enough  talking  to 
Miss  Dinah  while  it  lasted,  but — Heaven 
defend  me  from  a  lifetime  of  it." 

"  I  always  liked  the  little  girl,"  said  Red 
mond,  reflectively,  "  and  have  never  seen 
any  harm,  but  rather  a  lot  of  good  in  her, 
even  if  she  is  the  terror  of  all  chaperons 
with  prim  and  proper  charges,  and  of  all 
doting  mammas  with  utterly  hopeless  hope- 


A    FLIRT  215 

fuls.  They'd  rather  see  the  Fiend  himself 
in  a  ball-room  than  Dinah  Haye,  though 
why  I'm  sure  I  can't  understand,  as  she 
would  no  more  think  of  robbing  a  wall 
flower  of  her  occasional  prey  than  she 
would  of  stealing  her  stray  cotillon  fa 
vor." 

"I  think,"  said  Desborough,  "I  under 
stand  her  perfectly — the  type  of  girl  that 
men  consider  'good  fun,'  but  would  never 
dream  of  marrying." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !"  ejaculated  Red 
mond.  "  There  are  enough  who  would  have 
liked  and  would  like  to  marry  her." 

"You'll  find  men  who  will  cross  the 
Atlantic  in  a  small  boat,"  answered  Des 
borough,  "  but  the  most  still  prefer  the  se 
curity  of  the  conventional  Cunarder."  Then 
he  continued,  with  a  yawn,  "  But,  as  matri 
mony's  not  my  lay,  I  think  I  may  go  on 
without  any  fear  of  burning  my  fingers,  and 
learn  a  little  more  about  this  manifestation 
of  nineteenth-century  femininity." 

"  Milnes,"  answered  Redmond,  "  I  sup 
pose  that  you've  all  the  principles  and 
prejudices  that  rightly  belong  to  the  scion 


2l6  A    FLIRT 

of  so  distinguished  a  New  England  family 
— -are  thoroughly  imbued  with  all  the  puri- 
tanics,  if  you'll  allow  me  the  word — but  as 
for  myself — I'm  married  now  and  can  speak 
my  mind — I  find  the  gentle  trickle  of  small 
talk  which  the  average  maiden  of  society 
sees  fit  to  inflict  upon  me  rather  thin.  No, 
my  dear  fellow,  give  me  the  much -abused 
girl  of  the  day,  who  knows  her  own  mind 
and  the  minds  of  others ;  who  can  walk 
along  the  brink  of  the  steepest  precipice 
without  losing  her  head,  and  who,  indeed, 
has  coolness  enough  to  hold  out  a  helping 
hand  to  you  when  she  sees  you  are  grow 
ing  dizzy  —  give  me  the  modern  maiden, 
'the  great,  the  glorious,  the  ever-free,'  such 
as  she  is  to-day — hardly  to  be  excelled  in 
the  future — certainly  never  equalled  in  the 
past." 

"  My  dear  Harold,"  said  Desborough, 
"you  are  impassioned  in  your  style,  but 
really,  don't  you  think  this  is  a  subject 
that  you  and  I  should  have  dropped  long 
ago  ?" 

"Not  when  you  still  sit  out  three  dances," 
answered  Redmond. 


A    FLIRT  217 

"  That  "— Desborough  hesitated — "  that 
was  an  exception." 

"  Of  course  it  was,"  said  his  friend.  "  But 
so  is  Dinah  an  exception  —  an  exception 
among  a  lot  of  exceptions — nothing  quite 
so  perfect  of  the  kind  in  the  country." 

"But  the  kind?" 

"  Believe  me,  there's  a  great  deal  to  say 
for  the  kind.  Why,  man,  she  and  the  great 
many  like  her,  that  we  have  around  us,  are 
only  another  instance  of  '  demand  and  sup- 
ply.'" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Desbor 
ough. 

"  Mean  ?"  said  Redmond.  "  I  mean  that 
we  ask  a  great  deal  more  of  our  girls  than 
did  our  daddies.  We  demand  that  they 
shall  meet  us  as  human  beings,  with  equal 
knowledge,  equal  abilities,  almost  equal  ex 
periences.  The  mute,  unquestioning  ado 
ration  and  obedience  with  which  our  grand 
fathers  were  satisfied  would  bore  us  nearly 
to  death ;  we  want  a  woman  who  can  under 
stand  our  hopes,  our  fears,  our  pleasures, 
and  our  pains — who,  as  pretty  as  or  prettier 
even  than  her  foremothers,  has,  besides, 


2l  A    FLIRT 

intelligence,  learning,  wit,  taste,  and  ten 
thousand  other  things,  the  requirements  of 
an  exacting  generation.  I  tell  you  there's 
a  great  call  for  fresh,  strong,  militant  girl 
hood  just  now,  and  you  are  demanding  it 
just  as  much  as  any  one  else.  Proof:  The 
fact  that  you  sat  out  three  dances  with 
Dinah  Haye,  which  you  never  would  have 
done  with  one  of  your  offish,  icy  damsels, 
even  if  she  would  let  you." 

"  But  dances  are  one  thing  and  marriage 
is  another,"  remonstrated  Desborough. 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  think  how  highly  absurd 
for  a  man  to  marry  a  girl  who  would  bore 
him  if  he  danced  with  her  only  half  a  doz 
en  times." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Cynthia  Leigh  ?" 
asked  Desborough. 

"  Yes,  often,  and  should  have  found  her 
charming  —  in  another  and  better  world. 
Here,  she's  really  about  as  much  use  as, 
say,  a  good  statue  of  herself." 

"  I  have  always  admired  her  very  much." 

"  Of  course  you  have.  So  have  I — so 
have  we  all  of  us.  It's  the  thing  to  do. 
She  is  correct ;  she  is  traditional ;  she  is 


A    FLIRT  2lg 

the  highest  ideal  of  which  the  past  was  ca 
pable  ;  she  is  the  '  ingenue]  the  undoubt 
ed,  well-authenticated  '  ingenue ' ;  but,  Des- 
borough  " — Redmond  paused  a  moment — 
"  we've  got,  with  a  great  many  other  good 
things,  a  higher  ideal  in  these  our  slan 
dered  days.  We  do  not  extol  and  exalt 
the  ignorance  that  understands  nothing 
and  consequently  fears  nothing ;  but  rath 
er,  praise  that  bright,  clear  intelligence 
that,  knowing  much,  knows  also  when  and 
where  to  reflect,  to  hesitate,  to  pause,  to 
stop." 

"  You  might  shake  the  faith  of  somebody 
else  perhaps,"  said  Desborough,  smiling  at 
Redmond's  vehemence,  "but  it  takes  more 
than  one  or  two  generations  to  dilute  the 
old  Puritan  blood,  and  I  shall  continue  to 
believe  in  the  '  meek  and  lowly  maid.'  " 

"  All  right,"  answered  Redmond,  goocl- 
humoredly ;  "  she  was  good  in  her  time  and 
her  place ;  indeed,  her  virtues  are  not  for 
gotten,  but  only  included  in  the  many  mer 
its  of  her  modern  substitute  —  taken  for 
granted  by  this  age  that  asks  for — 

'"Militant  girlhood,'"  laughed    Desbor- 


220  A   FLIRT 

ough,  noting   Redmond's   pause   and   sup 
plying  him  with  his  own  expression. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  '  militant  girlhood,'  "  con 
tinued  Redmond,  quickly.  "If  you  want 
the  other  thing,  you'll  have  to  go  back  to  a 
past  when  the  world  didn't  experience  so 
many  sensations  to  the  square  inch  and  the 
round  minute.  I  don't  say  that  it  wasn't 
better,  but  it  won't  do  now  " ;  then  he  added 
laughingly, 

"  Oh,  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy  ! — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy." 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  You  dine  at  the  Wychbold's  ?"  said  Des- 
borough  at  length. 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Desborough,  rising. 
"  Then  I'll  see  you  there  ?" 

Ill 

The  dinner  had  advanced  several  stages 
— had  attained  that  point  where,  if  at  any 
time  in  a  dinner's  course,  the  wine  and  the 
wit  should  sparkle  —  when  Dinah  turned 
from  her  left-hand  neighbor. 


A   FLIRT  221 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Desborough, 
"  that  I  have  lately  done  anything  that  was 
particularly  good  and  noble." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  And  yet  I  must,"  he  went  on,  "  or  cer 
tainly  I  shouldn't  deserve  such  good-fort 
une." 

"  What  good-fortune  ?" 

"  My  being  just  here." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  disappointed,"  she 
said. 

"  Why  ?" 

"  For  one  reason,  because  you  ought  not 
to  be  here." 

"  W7hat  moral  obligation,"  asked  Desbor 
ough,  who  had  found  himself  consigned  to 
his  present  place  with  a  feeling  of  supreme 
satisfaction,  "  what  particular  rule  is  out 
raged  by  my  occupying  this  chair  ?" 

"  The  highest  law  known  to  society,"  an 
swered  Dinah,  "  the  will  of  your  hostess." 

"  But,"  said  Desborough,  with  some  be 
wilderment,  "  I  am  duly  billeted — I  found 
my  name  at  this  place." 

"Yes,"  answered  Dinah,  "but  it's  all 
wrone:." 


222  A    FLIRT 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,"  answered  Dinah,  smiling  and 
rolling  a  crumb  of  bread  under  her  finger, 
"that  I  slipped  down  before  dinner  and 
changed  the  cards.  I  wonder  if  you  will 
forgive  me  ?" 

"  For  what  ?" 

"  For  having  taken  upon  myself  to  inter 
fere — to  act  the  part  of  a  guardian  angel — 
when  I  wasn't  sure  that  you  wanted  one." 

"I  think,"  Desborough  answered,  "that 
you  must  have  known  that  my  own  had 
given  me  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  that  you 
wished  to  give  me  a  chance.  But  where 
should  I  have  been?"  he  asked.  "Ah, 
yes,  I  see ;  my  place  was  intended  for 
Nesbitt." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Haye  ;  "  but  I 
can't  bear  him,  and  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  Why,"  said  Desborough,  in  surprise,  "  I 
thought  he  was  the  gilded  ornament  that 
crowned  this  particular  social  edifice — the 
pet  of  both  the  '  debutante '  and  the  '  dow 
ager  ' — the  amiable,  the  accomplished,  the 
wholly  admirable." 


A    FLIRT  223 

"Oh,  yes,  but  I  cannot  endure  his  tran 
scendental  poetry  or  his  equally  transcen 
dental  politics." 

Desborough  had  always  been  thought  a 
sensible  person,  but  he  was  not  so  exalt- 
edly  superhuman  that  he  did  not  experi 
ence  a  slight  feeling  of  gratification  at  hear 
ing  Miss  Haye  speak  in  this  impulsive  and 
decided  fashion  of  a  man  whom  he  had  in 
his  heart  always  despised. 

"  However,"  she  continued,  "  I  suppose 
that  is  because  I'm  not  intellectual." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Desborough,  laughing. 
"  Do  you  know  I  had  not  thought  of  that." 

"  Well,"  she  went  on,  "  I'm  not,  and  don't 
pretend  to  be  ;  but  if  I  were,  I'm  sure  I'd 
never  let  any  one  suspect  it.  Don't  you 
think  there  is  such  a  lot  of  '  pose '  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Desborough,  thinking 
of  the  many  weary  minutes  during  which 
he  had  been  obliged  to  submit  to  the  pro 
cess  of  having  himself  impressed.  "  I  think 
intellect  is  too  often  the  last  resort  of  weak 
minds." 

Miss  Haye  laughed  gleefully. 

Just   as    "  Mrs.  Tom "   glanced   up   and 


224  A   FLIRT 

down  the  table  with  the  all-enveloping  look 
of  the  hostess  who  is  about  to  rise,  Dinah 
again  turned  to  Desborough,  with  whom  she 
had  not  been  talking  for  full  five  minutes. 

"You  are  sure  you  are  not  sorry?"  she 
insisted. 

"  Perfectly,"  he  replied. 

"  Because  you  know  if  you  hadn't  been 
here  you  would  have  been  somewhere  else." 

"  Are  you  stating  that  as  a  physical  fact, 
or  as  a  social  truth  ?" 

"  As  a  social  truth,"  she  answered,  smil 
ing;  and  following  her  glance  he  saw  that 
it  rested  on  Miss  Leigh. 

No,  he  certainly  was  not  sorry  ;  with  Cyn 
thia  he  knew  that  he  should  have  been  ex 
pected  to  be  "on  parade,"  and  he  was  con 
sciously  grateful  to  Dinah  for  permitting 
him  the  luxury  of  airing  his  thoughts,  in 
what  at  best  was  but  a  "  fatigue  dress." 

"And  you  are  really  going  already?"  he 
said,  as,  standing,  he  pulled  away  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  thank  you ;  and  I  suppose  that  if 
we  are  very  good  and  patient  you  will  join 
us— at  last." 


A    FLIRT  225 

IV 

The  Wychbold  carriage — an  exquisite  lit 
tle  one-horse  brougham  that  became  "  Mrs. 
Tom  "  admirably  —  was  rapidly  bowling 
along  the  smooth,  hard  macadam  road  be 
side  the  Park  "  meadows,"  where  the  snow 
lay  at  the  roots  of  the  long  grass  as  the 
white  sand  lies  about  the  flags  that  grow 
along  a  beach. 

"  Do  you  think  he  really  cares  for  her  ?" 
asked  Dinah,  drawing  up  the  fur  robe  over 
her  face  until  only  her  eyes  and  her  fore 
head  were  visible. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Wych 
bold,  blandly.  "  I'm  sure  he  never  came  to 
the  house  so  often  before." 

"  But — "  began  Dinah,  her  voice  dulled 
by  the  heavy  folds  of  the  voluminous  cov 
ering. 

"Certainly,"  interrupted  "Mrs.  Tom," 
"  it's  not  to  see  me,  and  you  cannot  for  an 
instant  imagine  it's  to  see  you.  Besides, 
nothing  could  be  more  natural ;  a  man  of 
his  traditions  would  be  sure  to  fancy  such 
a  girl  as  Cynthia.  Some  men  are  so  dull 
15 


226  A    FLIRT 

about  some  things,  and  mistake  primness 
for  profundity,  insensibility  for  dignity, 
and  vanity  for  just  pride.  Remember,  I 
shouldn't  talk  to  any  one  else  in  this  way, 
for  I  am  really  very  fond  of  her  and  ap 
preciate  her  fully — but  sometimes  she  does 
exasperate  me  very  much." 

"  And  do  you  believe  she  thinks  about 
him  ? "  asked  Miss  Haye,  still  from  the 
depths  of  the  thick  robe. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  decidedly 
and  contemptuously ;  "  she's  too  inexperi 
enced—too  simple-minded,  if  you  like — to 
see  anything  that  isn't  just  thrust  upon  her 
attention,  and  as  Milnes  Desborough  does 
not  '  pose,'  she  doesn't  notice  him.  There 
are  some  women  who  are  only  attracted  by 
affectations,  who  will  only  bite  at  the  arti 
ficial  fly." 

"  And  that  is  the  reason  she  likes  Nes- 
bitt?" 

"  Exactly.  She  is  taken  by  all  his  sil 
liness  and  assumption,  because  they  seem 
like  something  she  has  been  taught  to  be 
lieve  is  '  intellectual '  and  fine  and  elevated 
and  all  the  rest.  She  thinks  she  is  listen- 


A    FLIRT  227 

ing  to  words  of  profoundest  wisdom,  not 
knowing  that  it  is  all  extracted  from  the 
last  reviews.  She  cannot  understand  that 
the  men  who  do  anything  haven't  much  time 
to  talk,  and  that  when  they  do,  they  gener 
ally  say  something  of  their  own,  even  if  it 
is  nonsense.  I  never  could  endure  Frank 
Nesbitt  after  I  heard  how  he  treated  one 
poor  girl." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?" 

"  I  learned  it  in  a  queer  way,  but  I 
know  that  the  story  is  true.  He  was  en 
gaged  to  a  very  pretty  young  thing  whom 
he  threw  over  at  the  end  of  three  years, 
because,  as  he  told  her,  with  great  mag 
nanimity,  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  her 
enduring  the  life  of  poverty  that  must  be 
theirs  if  they  married  ;  for  you  know  he 
hasn't  a  cent,  and  no  more  had  she." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  of  it." 

"  He  never  allowed  the  engagement  to  be 
announced,  and  so  when  it  was  broken  off 
there  was  no  talk.  Oh,  I  never  could  trust 
him.  You  know  none  of  the  men  like 
him." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Dinah. 


228  A    FLIRT 

"Cynthia  must  not  get  interested  in  him — 
she  shall  not,"  asserted  "  Mrs.  Tom."  "  Mar 
riage  is  a  very  serious  thing  and — I  don't 
see  why  you  are  always  going  and  getting 
into  it." 

"I've  not,"  Dinah  observed;  "but  this 
from  you,  who  made  a  notorious  love-match, 
and  to  whom  all  society  points  as  the  one 
perfect  example  of  bliss  in  a  brown-stone 
'  cottage ' !" 

"  Dinah,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  grasping 
Miss  Haye's  hand  beneath  the  fur  wrap 
pings,  "  you  don't  know  all." 

"  What  is  it,  Constance  ?"  asked  Dinah 
in  surprise. 

"  I  am  perfectly  miserable." 

"Constance,"  cried  Miss  Haye,  "tell  me 
immediately  what  you  mean." 

"  I  can't." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Dinah,  gen 
tly  taking  "  Mrs.  Tom's  "  left  hand  in  both 
of  hers.  "  I  saw  that  there  was  something 
that  troubled  you,  but  I  didn't  like  to  ask." 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  any  one  else  in  the 
world  but  you,"  replied  "  Mrs.  Tom  ";  "  but 
I  feel  that  you  will  understand." 


A    FLIRT  229 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Miss  Haye. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  could  have  hap 
pened,  but  you  know  that  we  haven't  got  so 
very  much  money — that  is,  when  you  con 
sider  how  awful  our  expenses  are,  and 
though  Tom  has  always  been  as  liberal  as 
possible,  I  couldn't  get  on  with  what  he 
gave  me.  I'd  used  up  all  my  own  income 
and  I  began  to  get  into  debt.  I  couldn't 
stop,  and  now  what  I  owe  is  something 
fearful — and  Tom  doesn't  know  anything 
about  it." 

"  Constance  !" 

"  I  know  it's  frightful  of  me,  I  realize 
that  perfectly.  I  thought  I  would  save  and 
pay  it,  but  now  it  is  so  much  that — I  can't 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Tell  Tom." 

"  I  can't." 

"  But,  Constance,  this  is  serious.  The 
money  is  nothing — 

"  Nothing !" 

"  I  perhaps  might  arrange  all  that," 
mused  Miss  Haye. 

"Oh,  Dinah!"  cried  "Mrs.  Tom,"  for 
getting  where  she  was  and  clutching  wildly 


230  A    FLIRT 

at  her  friend,  "  if  only  you  can  find  some 
way  to  save  me  I'll  think  you're — 

"  A  horrid,  fast  flirt,"  laughed  Dinah. 

"  The  dearest,  truest,  best  person  on 
earth." 

"Don't,"  said  Dinah,  entreatingly  ;  "you'd 
never  know  it  was  I  ;  but,  suppose  I  do 
find  a  way,  what  will  you  do  besides  think 
me  all  these  impossible  things  ?" 

"  I'll  promise  you,"  answered  "  Mrs. 
Tom,"  "  never,  never  to  be  extravagant  and 
never  to  do  anything  like  it  again." 

Miss  Haye  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  gaz 
ing  intently  across  the  swelling  park  lands 
at  the  leafless  trees,  on  the  topmost  branch 
of  the  tallest  of  which  a  crow  sat  cawing 
dismally. 

"  Constance,"  she  said  at  length,  "  per 
haps  it's  just  as  well  that  I — as  you  say — 
understand." 

Milnes  Desborough  paced  slowly  up 
Alaska  Avenue  in  the  clear  twilight  that 
had  succeeded  the  bright  winter  day. 

Hearing  a  rapid  step,  detecting  a  short, 
sharp  footfall,  he  looked  quickly  up  and 


A    FLIRT  23I 

saw  that  Dinah  Haye  was  before  him,  smil 
ing  and  almost  barring  his  way. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed —  "out  at  this  time!" 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  not  afraid,  and 
the  air  is  so  exhilarating,  so — so  drinkable 
— so  tippleish  and  intoxicating !" 

Desborough  turned,  and  without  much 
thought  of  what  he  was  doing  walked  be 
side  her  down  the  street. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  your  name  is 
Dinah  Haye,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  Dinah  !  Is  that  a 
name  to  give  a  white  woman  ?" 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  your  first  name, 
but  your  last" 

"  Haye,"  she  said.  "I  think  it  is  a  very 
pretty  name ;  not  aristocratic,  perhaps,  but 
still  distinguished." 

They  had  reached  the  "  Square  "  at  which 
the  avenue  ended,  and  now  paused  on  the 
curbstone. 

"  I  don't  see  any  use  of  walking  further," 
she  said,  abruptly. 

"  But—" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  going  anywhere,  and  now 
I  want  to  go  back." 


232  A    FLIRT 

A  wild  idea  came  to  him  at  that  moment. 
Could  it  be  that  it  was  solely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  meeting  him  that  she  came  out  ? 

"  You  will  let  me  go  back  with  you  ?"  he 
said.  "  The  club  is  up  the  avenue,  and 
I  always  stroll  that  way  about  this  time." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  answered  briefly  as  they 
turned  together. 

He  would  have  liked  very  much  to  know 
if  what  his  flattered  vanity  had  quietly 
whispered  to  him  was  the  truth,  but  he 
could  think  of  no  method  of  discovery, 
and  he  walked  on  in  indolent  enjoyment 
of  her  companionship. 

"  I  knew  a  young  fellow  once,"  he  said, 
"who  had  your  name;  indeed,  I  believe  I 
pulled  him  out  of  the  water  a  year  or  two 
ago  at  Nahant  when  a  cramp  caught  him 
and  he  was  in  rather  a  bad  way.  He's 
now  at  Harvard,  but  he  writes  to  me  from 
time  to  time — I  suppose  to  let  me  know 
that  he  hasn't  gone  to  the  dogs  yet." 

"  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  excitement 
placing  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  I  always 
knew  it  was  you,  and  I  always  wanted  to 
tell  you,  but — just  speaking  about  it  seemed 


A    FLIRT  233 

so  little  after  what  you  had  done  that  I 
never  said  anything — and  you  saved  his 
life." 

"  Really,"  answered  Desborough,  "  you 
put  it  rather  too  picturesquely.  I  only 
picked  him  out  of  a  sea  that  was  like 
glass,  when  there  were  plenty  about  to  do 
it  if  I  had  not." 

"  But  they  didn't,"  she  said,  "  and  he 
always  told  me  that  you  saved  him  —  he 
talked  very  often  to  me  about  you,  saying 
that  you  had  always  been  so  kind  to  him 
and  had  done  so  much  for  him — " 

"  I — "  began  Desborough. 

"  And  I  have  always  thought  that  I 
should  so  much  like  to  see  the  man  who 
had  done  so  much  for  Phil — to  talk  with 
him  and  tell  him  my  gratitude.  And  now 
that  I  have  met  him  I  can  say  nothing." 

"  Don't,"  said  Desborough,  impatiently, 
"  you  will  make  me  sorry  I  spoke.  If  I 
had  not  been  so  luxuriously  apathetic  at 
just  that  moment  that  I  could  not  be  held 
responsible  for  anything  I  said,  I  certainly 
should  not  have  done  it." 

"  But,"  she  continued,  noticing  the   ex- 


234  A    FLIRT 

pression  of  annoyance  in  his  face,  "  you 
know  that  I  shall  never  forget." 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  fervently,  "  that  you 
will." 

She  did  not  speak  at  once. 

"  You're  going  to  the  Fenwick  ball  ?" 
she  said  at  length. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.    "  And  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  here  for  that." 

"  Here  for  that !"  he  exclaimed  in  sur 
prise  ;  "but  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
stay  a  long  time." 

"  So  I  have  been  here  a  '  long  time,' " 
she  replied,  laughing.  Then  she  added, 
"  And  isn't  it  a  week  and  a  half  until 
then  ?" 

"  A  future  and  a  fraction,"  he  answered, 
evasively. 

"  I  shall  hate  to  go,"  she  said.  "  I  love 
'  Mrs.  Tom'  and  I  love  Andros." 

"And  they  both  have  a  very  perceptible 
predilection  for  you,"  he  laughed. 

The  Wychbold  house  was  not  many  blocks 
from  the  "  Square,"  and  they  were  soon  be 
fore  its  door. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  holding  out  her 


A    FLIRT  235 

hand ;    "  for  there  is  nothing  at  which  we 
meet  until  to-morrow." 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  retaining  her 
unresisting  fingers  in  his  grasp. 

"  You  really  mustn't,"  she  said,  making, 
however,  no  effort  to  liberate  herself,  "or 
Mrs.  Abernethy  across  the  way  may  think 
you  are  taking  a  rather  lengthy  '  adieu.' 
She  disapproves  of  me  as  it  is — almost, 
indeed,  as  much  as  you  do." 

She  laughed  —  hardly  mirthfully,  and 
caught  her  hand  abruptly  away. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  do  not  approve 
of  you  ?"  he  asked,  imperturbably. 

"  I  feel  it,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  wonder 
I  do  not  hate  you." 

"  You  are  very  indulgent." 

"  I  think  I  am — but  do  you  know  I  do 
things  on  purpose  to  shock  you  ?  I  glory 
in  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  he  an 
swered,  "  in  everything.  But  you  don't. 
I'm  not  in  the  least  shocked.  You  see 
you  are  a  sort  of  rule  unto  yourself,  and 
what  in  another — " 

"  Might  be  reprehensible  and  improper 


23  A    FLIRT 

is  nothing  at  all  when  I  do  it — is  forgotten 
and  passed  over — just  because  it  is  only  I." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  she  responded,  in 
dignantly.  "  Your  explanation  is  very  sat 
isfactory — highly  so." 

"  But  you  are  wrong." 

"No,  I  am  right,"  she  went  on,  hotly. 
"  You  think  I  do  things  that  no  one  else 
would  do." 

"  No,"  he  protested. 

"  Yes,"  she  insisted,  "  and  I  do.  I  told 
you  I  took  particular  satisfaction  in  horri 
fying  you.  I  am  going  to  do  it  once  more. 
I  came  out  this  afternoon  on  purpose  to 
meet  you." 

"  Did  you  ?"  he  demanded,  eagerly. 

"  I  know  that  you  think  I  shouldn't  have 
done  it ;  and  if  I  did,  that  I  shouldn't  have 
told  you — should  have  kept  it  a  secret  as 
if  I  was  ashamed  of  it." 

"  But,  really,  did  you  ?"  he  asked,  with 
unusual  earnestness. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  and  as  the  servant 
opened  the  door  she  vanished  from  his 
sight. 


A    FLIRT  237 


Dinner  had  not  been  a  very  festive  af 
fair.  As  it  had  happened,  the  only  ex 
pected  guest  of  the  evening  had  given  out 
at  the  last  moment,  and  the  household  had 
dinner  alone.  On  the  whole,  the  evening 
had  been  rather  dismal.  Between  Dinah 
and  Cynthia  Leigh  there  had  arisen  a  dis 
tant  coldness.  "  Tom  "  Wychbold  was  evi 
dently  depressed;  and  even  "  Mrs.  Tom," 
who  generally  was  only  not  equal  to  an 
occasion  when  she  was  superior  to  it,  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table  in  unaccustomed 
thoughtfulness. 

At  last  the  ordeal  was  over,  but,  when 
the  rest  had  withdrawn  from  the  dining- 
room,  Wychbold  did  not,  as  he  ordinarily 
would  have  done,  seek  the  seclusion  of  his 
smoking-room  ;  instead,  he  hovered  uneasily 
about  the  drawing-room,  where  Miss  Leigh 
was  trying  the  music,  just  sent  her,  of  some 
new  composer  whose  name  was  chiefly  made 
of  the  last  letters  of  the  alphabet ;  where 
"  Mrs.  Tom  "  was  writing  notes,  and  where 
Miss  Haye  was  doing  nothing. 


238  A    FLIRT 

"  Oh !"  he  exclaimed  at  length,  with  a 
very  mechanical  air  of  carelessness,  "  I  wish 
some  one  would  come  and  see  the  way 
they  have  framed  the  photograph  of  the 
four-in-hand.  I  can't  make  up  my  mind 
whether  it's  right  or  not." 

He  looked  imploringly  at  Dinah,  and  she 
jumped  up  promptly. 

"  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "  I'm  always  only 
too  ready  to  give  an  opinion." 

He  led  the  way  to  his  particular  holy  of 
unholies,  where  the  chief  objects  of  still- 
life  were  crops,  spurs,  and  guns,  and  the 
only  occupant  other  than  themselves  was  a 
shaggy  Skye  terrier  that  came  jumping  to 
meet  them  ;  then  he  closed  the  door  care 
fully  and  mysteriously,  and  glanced  around 
at  his  companion.  "  I  want,  Dinah,"  he 
said,  "  to  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  mo 
ment." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  you  certainly 
made  it  evident  enough,  and  that's  the 
reason  that  I  came." 

"  Of  course  I  shouldn't  speak  to  any  one 
else  of  this  ;  but  you — for  you — you  know 
—you—" 


A    FLIRT  239 

"Yes,"  Dinah  interrupted,  "I  am  differ 
ent.  I  know — I  understand." 

"  How  could  you  guess  what  I  was  going 
to  say  ?"  asked  Wychbold  in  amazement. 

"  Strange,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Miss  Haye. 

Wychbold  again  glanced  around  the  room. 

"  Dinah,  I've  been  a  fool." 

"  It  would  hardly  be  becoming  in  me  not 
to  attempt  at  least  to  look  decently  sur 
prised." 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it,  I've  made 
an  idiot  of  myself,"  continued  Wychbold. 

"  As  there  are  so  many  ways,"  observed 
Miss  Haye,  critically,  "  in  which  a  man  can 
make  an  idiot  of  himself,  the  fact  that  he 
has  doesn't  carry  very  much  information. 
One  expects  that,  and  the  only  interest  lies 
in  knowing  how  he  has  done  it." 

"  Now,  Dinah,  don't  be  hard.  I  want 
you  to  help  me." 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  it— but  what  have  you 
'been  and  done'?  Come,  tell  the  whole 
truth,  if  you  expect  any  aid  from  me." 

"  It  all  came  from  our  going  to  Lake 
Masaqua  last  summer.  Constance  went 
wild  about  the  country.  She  declared  that 


240  A    FLIRT 

she  would  have  a  country  place,  and  she 
would  not  be  satisfied  until  I  promised 
to  buy  one,  which  I  did." 

"That  seems  all  smooth  enough  so  far." 

"Yes,"  groaned  Wychbold,  "but  it  isn't 
all  of  it.  She  wanted  to  buy  on  Lake  Mas- 
aqua  and  I  on  Lake  Samaqua.  She  said 
that  Lake  Masaqua  was  the  only,  possible 
spot — that  they  would  be  putting  railroads 
and  hotels  at  Lake  Samaqua,  and  that  it 
would  be  horrid." 

"  Yes." 

"Well  —  I  went  and  bought  on  Lake 
Samaqua,  having  confidence  that  it  was  the 
best  thing  to  do,  and  that  it  would  come 
out  all  right — and  have  never  told  her  any 
thing  about  it,  leaving  her  to  think  that  the 
place  is  Lake  Masaqua." 

"And  how  has  it  come  out  ?" 

"  All  wrong.  They're  going  to  put  up  a 
monster  hotel  at  Samaqua,  with  a  railway 
running  up  behind  it " — and  Tom  held  out 
a  small  country  newspaper  to  Miss  Haye. 
"  And  here  is  a  letter  offering  me  double 
what  I  paid  for  our  place." 

"  That  hardly  seems  all  wrong." 


A    FLIRT  241 

"  Yes,  but  don't  you  see  ?  Constance 
doesn't  want  the  money,  but  wants  the 
place — and  the  other  is  sold  ;  and  it  has 
all  turned  out  just  as  she  said  it  would, 
and  with  every  one  that  she  knows  go 
ing  to  Lake  Masaqua  this  summer  she'll  be 
wretched  if  she  isn't  there,  and  altogether 
I'm  in  a  hole." 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  Miss  Haye. 

"  Really,"said  Wychbold,  delighted.  " Will 
you,  really  ?  I  know  that  if  you  try  you  can 
settle  it,  and  you  must.  Dinah,"  he  con 
tinued,  effusively,  "  do  whatever  you  like. 
I  trust  you  implicitly,  and  if  there  is  any 
thing  I  can  ever  do  for  you — " 

"  You'll  do  it.  Well — perhaps  some  day 
I  may  put  you  to  the  test,"  said  Miss  Haye, 
turning  to  go. 

"  Dinah,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  looking  cu 
riously  at  her  friend,  "  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?" 

The  two  were  sitting  before  the  fire. 

"  Why,"   cried    Miss   Haye,   in    affected 
alarm,  "  do  I  show  symptoms  of  anything 
dangerous  ?" 
16 


242  A    FLIRT 

"  Perhaps,"  answered  Mrs.  Wychbold, 
gravely. 

"  Do  not  tell  me,"  exclaimed  Miss  Haye, 
"  that  it  is  croup,  whooping-cough,  or  mea 
sles.  Anything  befitting  my  years  I  could 
endure,  but  those — never." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  other,  slowly,  "  it 
is  something  quite — quite  natural,  even  at 
your  age." 

"You  relieve  me  very  much.    What  is  it  ?" 

"Dinah,"  said  "Mrs.  Tom,"  slowly,  "if 
you  were  any  one  else  I  should  say  you 
were  in  love." 

Miss  Haye's  face  became  a  shade 
warmer  in  tint ;  but  as  the  fire  had  fallen 
in  at  that  moment  and  now  cast  a  sudden 
glow  over  the  place,  Mrs.  Wychbold  might 
imagine  it  was  only  the  coloring  given  it 
by  the  quick  flame. 

"  And  why  any  one  else  ?" 

"  Because,  really,  I  thought  you  had 
quite  got  past  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  said 
"  Mrs.  Tom,"  "  and  that  you  had  flirted 
away  all  the  heart  there  was  in  you  when 
you  were  quite  a  small  child." 

"  My  dear,"  answered  Dinah,  quickly  and 


A    FLIRT  243 

evidently  unreflectingly,  "  you  don't  display 
your  usual  perspicacity.  A  woman's  heart 
is  like  a  sponge :  it  may  be  squeezed  dry 
one  week  and  yet  be  soaking  the  next." 

"  Mrs.  Tom  "  laughed. 

"  And  then,"  went  on  Miss  Haye,  eagerly, 
"  because  it  may  have  been  full  of  water 
any  number  of  times,  is  there  any  reason 
why  it  may  not  be  overflowing  with  rich 
wine  at  last." 

"  Dinah,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  "  you  are 
eloquent.  Shall  I  consider  that  you  are 
speaking  in  your  own  defence  ?" 

"  I,  oh  no — why  should  I  ?"  answered  Di 
nah,  a  trifle  sadly.  "  Every  one  knows  me, 
and  no  one  would  dream  that  I,  who  am 
without  '  fear  '  if  not  without  '  reproach,' 
would  ever  become  a  poor,  sentimental, 
maudlin  creature." 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom," 
sagely  shaking  her  head. 

"  But  bless  you,  Constance,  who  could  it 
be  ?  Whom  do  you  suspect  ?" 

"  Never  mind  my  suspicion.  All  that  I 
ask  is,"  and  she  leaned  and  kissed  Dinah 
with  unwonted  tenderness,  "  that  you  may 


344  A    FLIRT 

not  singe  your  wings,  that  you  may  not 
break  your  heart  at  last,  though  it  would 
be  only  justice  if  you  did." 

"  Nonsense,"  asserted  Miss  Haye,  stout 
ly.  "  I  never  broke  anybody's  heart,  no  one 
ever  took  me  seriously  enough.  I've  just 
now  and  then  nicked  one  a  little  bit  and 
that  is  all." 

"  Be  careful,"  went  on  "  Mrs.  Tom."  "  I 
wouldn't  have  anything  happen  to  you,  and 
I  hope  that  you  may  be  as  happy  as — well, 
as  you  don't  deserve,  but  really  ought  to 
be." 

"And  you  do  not  think,"  asked  Dinah, 
looking  up  for  a  moment  and  then  letting 
her  head  sink  among  the  laces  of  "Mrs. 
Tom's  "  frock,  "  that  I  am  altogether  hard 
and  wicked  ?" 

"  No,  dear,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  placing 
her  hand  on  Dinah's  head  and  feeling  for 
the  instant  strangely  old  and  experienced, 
"  no,  not  a  bit." 

A  sudden  sob  shook  Dinah's  pliant  figure, 
and  the  "  Flirt "  sank  on  the  thick  rug, 
weeping  bitterly. 


A    FLIRT  245 

VI 

Celestine,  "  Mrs.  Tom's  "  maid,  entering 
the  room  where  Miss  Haye  lay  on  a  long, 
low  couch  reading  her  letters  received  by 
the  afternoon  mail,  approached  with  the 
usual  Gallic  air  of  confidential  mystery,  and 
gave  her  a  card. 

Sitting  up  with  surprising  alacrity,  Dinah 
took  the  oblong  bit  of  paper. 

"  Mr.  Desborough !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Are 
you  sure  there  is  no  mistake  ? — are  you  sure 
it  is  not  for  Miss  Leigh  ?" 

"  There  eez  no  meestake,"  announced 
Celestine  confidently.  "  He  ask  especially 
for  Miss  Haye." 

"  Really  !  said  Dinah,  staring  with  wide- 
eyed  astonishment  at  her  informant.  "Tell 
Lupton  to  say  that  I'll  be  down  directly." 

As  Dinah  entered  the  great  darkened 
drawing-room,  where  the  yellow  and  gold 
chairs  stood  at  such  unamiable  distances 
from  each  other  or  were  gathered  in  such 
formal  groups,  Milnes  Desborough  rose 
quickly  from  the  remote  corner  in  which 
he  had  been  sitting. 


246  A    FLIRT 

"  Come  into  the  library,"  she  said,  before 
he  had  a  chance  to  speak.  "Uo  you  mind  ? 
I  always  feel  in  this  place,  when  there  isn't 
a.  party  on,  as  if  I  were  in  an  upholstered 
Sahara." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  led 
the  way  across  the  hall  to  a  room  where 
the  colors  were  darker  and  the  decorations 
more  peaceful ;  where  the  chairs  were  more 
calculated  for  comfort  and  the  crowded 
objects  seemed  to  induce  confidence. 

"You  don't  know  how  surprised  and 
honored  I  feel,"  she  said,  seating  herself 
near  the  fire  and  picking  up  a  magazine  to 
shield  her  face  from  the  heat. 

Desborough  turned  his  hat  nervously  in 
his  hands. 

"  Miss  Haye,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  to 
see  you  for  the  reason  that  I  want  to  tell 
you  something." 

"  Because  I  would — "  she  said,  laughing, 
and  with  a  certain  scornful  emphasis  on 
the  last  word. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  looking  up,  "  be 
cause  you  would  understand.  How  did  you 
know  ?" 


A    FLIRT  247 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "that's  why  people 
always  come  to  see  me,  because  I  '  under 
stand.'  It's  my  specialty.  Go  on." 

"  You  may  think  it  is  strange  my  telling 
you,  but  you  will  find  that  I've  a  good 
reason  for  it." 

"  Of  course  you  wouldn't  dream  of  tell 
ing  it  to  any  one  else?"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  looking  up  question- 
ingly. 

"  I  thought  so — that  again  is  something 
of  which  I  have  a  monopoly.  But  go  on." 

"  You  must  have  noticed,  as  every  one 
has,  my  evident — interest  in  Miss  Leigh." 

"Yes,"  said  Dinah,  impatiently,  while 
her  eyes  suddenly  shone  with  an  angry 
light.  "  Do  you  want  to  relate  to  me  the 
history  of  your  love  ?" 

"  It  is  most  important  to  me  you  should 
hear  me,"  said  Desborough,  soothingly ; 
"  and  though  I  may  bore  you  horribly,  I 
beg  as  a  favor  you  will  listen." 

Dinah  did  not  answer. 

"  For  a  moment,"  he  said,  taking  a  paper 
from  his  pocket,  "  to  speak  of  something 
else,  I  received  a  letter  this  morning.  Will 


248  A    FLIRT 

you  allow  me  to  read  you  a  paragraph 
from  it  ?" 

Dinah  nodded  indifferently. 

" '  Dinah,  dear  Dinah,'  "  read  Desborough, 
"  '  the  best  sister  a  fellow  ever  had — '  " 

"  It's  from  Phil,"  Dinah  cried  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  commanded,  bend 
ing  forward  and  reaching  out  her  hand. 

"  You  mustn't  grab,"  he  said,  holding 
the  loosely  scrawled  sheet  above  his  head  ; 
then,  shoving  back  his  chair,  he  read  on  : 
"  '  Dinah  is  in  Andros.  I  hope  that  you'll 
see  her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  and  you 
I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of 
me.  She's  regularly  brought  me  up  in  the 
way  I  should  go,  and  the  memory  of  the 
sacrifices  that  she  has  made  for  me  is 
going  to  be  the  thing  that  will  make  some 
thing  of  me  in  the  end.  I  tell  you  I'm 
going  to  pay  her  back  by  hard  work  if  I 
can  manage  it.  She  ought  to  have  every 
thing,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that  she  does. 
Poor  Di,  it's  lucky  she's  so  pretty,  for  she 
hasn't  had  as  much  as  other  girls.  She's 


A    FLIRT  249 

pinched  herself  all  these  years  to  give  me 
a  chance,  and  I  wouldn't  be  here — here  at 
college — if  the  money  to  pay  for  it  had  not 
come  out  of  what  she  should  have  had  for 
her  ball-dresses.' " 

"  The  outrageous  boy !"  cried  Dinah, 
"telling  tales  out  of  school  like  that!  He 
ought  to  know  better." 

"  I  am  very  thankful  that  he  has,"  ob 
served  Desborough,  carefully  folding  the 
letter,  but  watching  her  all  the  time,  "  and 
I  only  wish  more  could  know  what  he  has 
written." 

"  Nothing  but  the  exaggeration  of  the 
very  young,"  said  Dinah,  contemptuously. 

"  Hardly,"  replied  Desborough.  "  But  I 
only  read  you  this  so  that  you  might  know 
exactly  what  I  know." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Dinah,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  is  somewhat  puzzled. 

"  And  now  let  me  go  on  with  my  story," 
he  continued.  "  I  have  been  said  to  be  in 
love  with  Miss  Leigh." 

Dinah  did  not  speak. 

"  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  my 
feelings,"  he  added. 


25°  A    FLIRT 

"Oh,"  she  interrupted,  "such  analysis 
must  be  extremely  interesting — please  do 
not  omit  anything." 

"  Of  those  I  shall  say  nothing,"  he  went 
on,  so  intent  upon  his  subject  as  to  be  al 
most  unmindful  of  her  interruption,  "  be 
cause  I  don't  understand  it  all  very  well 
myself.  Every  one  seemed  to  think  it  was 
natural  that  I  should  be  in  love  with  Miss 
Leigh." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  murmured  Dinah,  softly. 

"  And  what  seems  reasonable  to  every 
one,  in  time  comes  to  seem  more  or  less 
reasonable  to  one's  self  I  suppose.  I  must 
believe  that  my  admiration  for  Cynthia 
Leigh  was  sincere." 

Although  he  paused,  Dinah  said  nothing. 

"  I  sought,"  he  continued,  speaking  after 
the  manner  of  one  who,  making  a  confes 
sion,  endeavors  painfully  to  state  the  case 
fairly — who  conscientiously  seeks  to  leave 
out  nothing  that  may  tell  against  him,  ''  in 
every  way  to  win  Miss  Leigh's  favor." 

Miss  Haye  studied  the  design  in  the  rug 
as  if  its  involved  characters  were  those  of 
some  rare  palimpsest  which,  if  deciphered, 


A    FLIRT  251 

would  yield  secrets  of  inestimable  value  to 
the  human  race. 

"  Yesterday,  I  asked  Miss  Leigh  to  marry 
me,"  he  said,  finally  and  abruptly. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment. 

"And  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  tell 
me  of  your  engagement,"  murmured  Dinah, 
still  without  change  of  attitude. 

"  No,  indeed,"  he  cried,  amazedly.  "  Did 
you  think  that  the  reason  I  am  here  ?" 

"  No — what — why  then  ?"  asked  Dinah, 
looking  up  in  quick  astonishment. 

"  But  she  refused  me,"  said  Desborough, 
almost  laughing,  "flatly,  absolutely,  irrev 
ocably." 

Dinah  sprang  to  her  feet  with  closed 
hands  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  Then,"  she  cried,  "  for  what  possible 
purpose  have  you — 

Before  Dinah  could  finish  the  sentence 
the  library  door  was  thrown  open,  and  "Mrs. 
Tom,"  hastily  entering,  quickly  stopped  as 
her  eyes  fell  on  Milnes  Desborough. 

"  Oh — you  here  ?"  she  said,  too  much  ab 
sorbed  and  excited  for  more  formal  greet 
ing. 


252  A    FLIRT 

"  Yes,  '  Mrs.  Tom,'  "  he  said,  rising ;  "  al 
though  I'm  not  quite  sure  about  my  pres 
ence  of  mind,  my  presence  of  body  is 
unquestionable." 

"  Well,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "  now 
run  along  like  a  dear  boy.  I've  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  Dinah,  and  if  you  want  to 
see  her  she'll  be  at  the  ball  to-night." 

"  But — "  began  Desborough. 

"  No,"  said  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  impatiently 
stamping  her  foot ;  "  you  must  go  now — 
immediately." 

"  Very  well,"  responded  Desborough, 
making  his  way  obediently  towards  the 
door.  "  I  go,  but—" 

"  Hurry  !"  commanded  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  and, 
as  the  door  closed,  she  continued :  "  How 
fortunate  it  wasn't  a  stranger!  I  had  to 
speak  to  you  immediately.  What  do  you 
think  has  happened  to  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Miss 
Haye,  blankly  and  even  indifferently. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it.  See !"  and 
"Mrs.  Tom"  held  out  for  Miss  Haye's  in 
spection  a  handful  of  letters  which  the 
postman  had  just  left. 


A    FLIRT  253 

"What  are  they?" 

"  All  my  bills  receipted.  What  can  it 
mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  it's  very  simple,"  replied  Miss 
Haye.  "  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I 
was  bold  enough  to  take  it  upon  myself 
to  pay  them  in  your  name." 

"  Pay  them  —  you  !"  exclaimed  "  Mrs. 
Tom." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  did  !" 

"  Really  !"  exclaimed  "  Mrs.  Tom,"  fairly 
stunned  by  the  information ;  "  but  where 
did  you  get  the  money  ?" 

"  I  borrowed  it  from  Tom,"  laughed  Di 
nah,  "  and  now  you  can  pay  me  whenever 
you  like.  I'm  not  an  exacting  creditor.  I 
sha'n't  really  press  you  for  it  unless  Tom 
comes  at  me,  and  I  don't  think  he'll  do 
that." 

"  And  he  lent  it  to  you  ?" 

"Of  course.  But  then  what  I  do  doesn't 
count.  No  one  expects  anything  of  me, 
and  so  I  can  do  everything."  She  spoke 
with  a  certain  sadness,  but  quickly  went 
on  with  greater  brightness  and  animation  : 
"  Imagine  Cynthia  Leigh  borrowing  money 


254  A    FLIRT 

from  Tom.  Oh,  it  makes  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  what  kind  of  a  standard  you're 
expected  to  live  up  to,  and  I  early  made 
mine  low  on  purpose.  So  you  see,  Con 
stance,  there  are  times  in  this  world  when 
it's  just  as  well  to  be  a  little  '  human '  and 
'  horrid.'  " 

Miss  Haye  slipped  through  the  door 
before  "Mrs.  Tom"  could  say  anything 
further.  In  the  hall  she  nearly  ran  into 
Tom  Wychbold,  who  was  coming  from  his 
den. 

"  Dinah,  Dinah  !"  he  called. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  impatiently. 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  ?" 

"  For  what  ?"  she  demanded. 

"About  fixing  it  up  with  Constance. 
Only  just  now  she  said  that  it  was  such  a 
pity  that  we  had  that  Masaqua  place,  as 
no  one  really  was  going  there,  and  that  she 
onl)'  wished  she  was  out  of  it  and  had  never 
been  foolish  enough  to  get  into  it." 

"  And  thereupon — "  said  Dinah,  severely. 

"  Thereupon  I  confessed  like  a  man — 
and  Constance  said  she  was  delighted,  and 
that  I  was  very  clever  to  have  made  so 


A    FLIRT  255 

much   money,  and  everything  was  serene. 
Dinah,  you're  an  angel !" 

"You  are  the  first  who  has  ever  discov 
ered  it,"  replied  Miss  Haye ;  and  running 
up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  she  en 
tered  her  room,  locked  the  door,  and  throw 
ing  herself  on  the  divan  she  had  just  quitted, 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

VII 

"  Mees  Eh  !    Mees  Eh  !" 

It  was  Celestine's  voice  at  the  door,  and 
Dinah,  who  was  fully  dressed  for  the  ball, 
hastened  to  open  it  at  her  excited  call. 

"  Mees  Eh  !"  exclaimed  the  middle-aged 
but  vivacious  tire-woman,  her  black  eyes 
snapping  with  excitement. 

"  Merciful  heavens !"  cried  Dinah,  realiz 
ing  that  something  unusual  was  the  mat 
ter,  or  otherwise  "  Mrs.  Tom's  "  maid  could 
hardly  have  so  far  lost  the  dignified  de 
portment  she  considered  proper  in  her  po 
sition.  "Celestine,  what  has  happened?" 

"Nothing,  Mees  Eh,"  answered  the  agi 
tated  person  ;  "  it  is  what  is  to  happen." 

"Yes,  yes  !"  exclaimed  Dinah. 


256  A    FLIRT 

"  I  come  to  you  because  you  under 
stand." 

"  Of  course — naturally,"  said  Dinah,  even 
in  her  haste  speaking  somewhat  scornfully ; 
"  it's  only  to  be  expected.  My  understand 
ing  is  certainly  something  phenomenal — 
superhuman." 

"  Mrs.  Wychbold,  she — what  it  is  named 
— lose  her  head  if  she  know." 

"  Well,"  said  Dinah,  impatiently. 

"  I  just  learn  it  from  Josephine,  Mees 
Leigh's  maid.  I  do  not  know  that  I  do 
right  to  tell — but  I  am  uncertain — it  is  a 
great  responsibility,  and  I  come  to  you  be 
cause  you  understand." 

"  Exactly — I  know  all  about  that — only 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  Miss  Leigh  has  given  orders,"  said 
Celestine,  drawing  nearer  and  finally  speak 
ing  in  French,  in  the  hoarse  whisper  of 
conspiracy,  but  with  the  volubility  of  keen 
interest,  "  that  all  her  trunks  be  packed — 
that  Josephine  be  ready  to  accompany  her 
to-night.  She  will  go  to  the  ball,  but  she 
will  return.  The  gentleman,  Mr.  Nesbitt, 
will  meet  her  at  the  small  gate  in  the  Fen- 


A    FLIRT  257 

wick  garden — he  will  drive  her  here,  where 
Josephine  and  the  luggage  will  await  her, 
and  then — "  and  Celestine  waved  her  hands 
with  the  palms  outspread  in  a  gesture 
that  seemed  to  imply  that  the  remotest 
depth  of  interstellar  space  would  be  the 
most  likely  place  in  which  to  make  search 
for  the  fugitives.  "  It  is  in  order,"  she  went 
on,  "that  Mrs.  Wychbold  may  not  know — • 
that  Miss  Leigh  may  get  away  without  ques 
tion,  that  she  is  going  to  the  ball." 

Dinah  sat  down  abruptly  on  the  nearest 
chair,  staring  blankly  at  her  informant, 
who  beamed  upon  her  with  an  air  of  uncon 
scious  importance  and  ineffable  satisfac 
tion. 

"  Really,"  said  Dinah  at  length,  with  her 
eyes  even  wider  open  than  usual,  and  her 
lips  more  than  slightly  parted. 

"This  very  night — in  a  short  time,"  rat 
tled  off  the  maid.  "  It  is  necessary  to  act 
at  once." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Haye.  "  What  is  to  be 
done  ?" 

"  Yes,  what  ?"  said  the  delighted  maid. 

"  Mrs.  Wychbold — "  began  Dinah. 
17 


258  A    FLIRT 

"Oh,  no — she  must  not  be  told,"  inter 
rupted  Celestine,  quickly.  "  There  would 
be  a  storm — a  tempest.  It  must  be  ar 
ranged  quietly,  so  no  one  will  know." 

"  It's  like  the  little  idiot,"  said  Miss 
Haye,  talking  to  herself  in  her  absorption, 
and  using  English  that  might  literally  be 
called  nervous  in  her  agitation.  "  Mary's 
little  lamb  was  an  experienced  black  sheep 
beside  Cynthia  Leigh.  How  can  a  girl  'be 
such  a  lunatic,  and  with  Nesbitt,  too  ?  Some 
one  must  stop  her." 

"  What  does  Mees  Eh  think,"  demanded 
the  maid,  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  think,  Celestine.  I  don't  know. 
I  must  reflect,"  and  running  her  ringers 
through  her  hair,  utterly  forgetful  of  the 
time  and  care  spent  in  its  arrangement, 
Dinah  sat  silent  in  the  attitude  of  deep 
cogitation,  while  Celestine  watched  her  ex 
pectantly. 

VIII 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  and  the 
neighborhood  of  the  big  Fenwick  house  re 
sounded  with  the  roll  of  hastening  carriages, 


A    FLIRT  259 

and  the  darkness  was  broken  by  the  fire 
fly  flash  of  coach-lamps.  A  long  string  of 
broughams  and  other  covered  vehicles  ex 
tended  down  the  gravelled  drive  and  far 
along  the  street.  Every  minute  added  to 
its  length,  and,  accompanied  by  the  hoarse 
commands  of  the  policemen  and  the  loud 
shouts  of  the  drivers,  the  line  moved  on 
with  frequent  pauses.  One  after  another 
the  carriages  stopped  under  the porte  cochere 
and  their  occupants  alighted,  permitting  the 
occasional  watchers  to  catch  glimpses  of 
the  muffled  figures  that  flitted  lightly  up  the 
steps  and  disappeared  through  the  hastily 
opened  door. 

Many  were  coming,  but  the  rooms  were 
already  full,  for  it  was  after  midnight. 
There  was  such  a  crush  as  to  make  motion 
almost  impossible,  and,  with  difficulty 
through  the  surge  of  voices,  one  caught 
the  strains  of  the  waltz  of  the  winter. 

Desborough  had  just  arrived  and  made 
his  way  hurriedly  through  the  gathering 
throng — impatiently  forgetful  of  all  but  one 
thing. 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Haye  ?"  he  asked 


260  A    FLIRT 

of  Redmond  as  he  passed  him  in  the  door 
way. 

"  Not  for  half  an  hour;  not  since  she  first 
came  in." 

With  a  vigorous  imprecation  on  his  ill- 
luck,  Desborough  continued  his  search. 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Haye  ?"  he  de 
manded  of  his  host,  whom  he  found  just 
returning  from  a  visit  to  the  supper- 
room. 

"No,"  answered  Fenwick,  carelessly,  "but 
'Mrs.  Tom'  and  Miss  Leigh  are  over  there, 
and  she  must  be  somewhere  about." 

With  a  perceptible  increase  of  ill-temper 
Desborough  passed  on.  He  had  done  the 
drawing-rooms  thoroughly ;  next  he  inves 
tigated  the  halls,  and  then  hunted  through 
the  conservatories ;  examined  the  stairs, 
carefully  scrutinizing  all  the  dark  nooks 
and  corners.  But  the  object  of  his  quest 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  He  tried  the 
second  floor,  reconnoitring  the  corridors, 
and,  untiring  in  his  search,  made  his  way 
even  to  the  billiard-room,  where  he  ruth 
lessly  disturbed  a  blushing  couple  who  had 
fondly  imagined  themselves  safe. 


A    FLIRT  26l 

"  Where  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  illusive 
can  she  have  gone  ?';  he  muttered  as  he  de 
scended  the  main  stairway. 

Looking  down,  he  saw  Dinah  Haye  direct 
ly  before  him  at  the  foot  of  the  last  flight. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  asked,  with 
no  great  softness  of  accent  or  suavity  of 
manner  as  he  came  up  to  her. 

"  Come,"  she  exclaimed,  not  noticing  his 
peremptoriness  and  advancing  a  step  or 
two  to  meet  him.  "  I  must  speak  to  you  im 
mediately." 

"  Here,  in  the  conservatory,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

There  were  a  number  of  people  among 
the  big  bending  leaves  of  the  tropical 
plants ;  but  the  light  was  not  so  glaring  as 
elsewhere,  and  the  place  where  they  sat 
down  was  quite  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  others. 

"  Oh  !"  she  cried,  as  he  seated  himself 
beside  her ;  but  she  did  not  speak  at  once, 
but  only  laughed  a  little  hysterically. 

"  Something  has  happened,"  she  went  on. 
"I  am  trembling  with  excitement,  and  my 
heart  beats — "  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side 
— "  how  my  heart  does  beat !" 


262  A    FLIRT 

"  As  you  have  regard  for  my  sanity,"  he 
said,  impatiently,  "  tell  me  what  is  the  mat 
ter." 

"  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  blazing  cheeks,  "  but  I'll 
try.  Just  as  I  was  dressed  Celestine  came 
to  me  and  told  me  that  Cynthia  Leigh  had 
planned  an  elopement." 

"  What !"  cried  Desborough.  "  Cynthia 
Leigh  ?" 

"  Yes,  Cynthia  Leigh ;  poor  thing,  she 
must  have  completely  lost  her  reason,  she's 
so  inexperienced,  you  know — and  with  Nes- 
bitt,  too." 

"  The  wretched  little  beggar,"  murmured 
Desborough.  "He  must  have  known  that 
if  they  were  once  married  old  Leigh  could 
be  twisted  into  coming  around  with  his 
millions." 

"  Exactly,  as  she  knew  that  her  father 
could  never  be  brought  to  give  his  con 
sent." 

"  But  —  "  began  Desborough. 

"  Celestine  told  me  all  about  it,"  Dinah 
hurried  on.  "  He  was  to  meet  her  here  — 
at  the  garden  gate.  She  could  easily  step 


A    FLIRT  263 

out  and  no  one  would  miss  her  for  a  long 
time ;  then  he  was  to  drive  her  to  the  house, 
they  were  to  get  Josephine  and  the  trunks, 
and  then  away  they  were  to  go." 

"  Well  !" 

"  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  If  I  had 
told  Tom,  there  would  have  been  a  scene, 
he's  so  headstrong;  if  I  had  told  'Mrs. 
Tom,'  there  would  be  another  of  another 
sort,  she's  so  impulsive.  I  hadn't  any  one 
but  myself,  and  there  wasn't  any  time  to 
lose." 

"  And — "  Desborough  again  began. 

"  Before  I'd  got  here  I'd  made  up  my 
mind,"  said  Dinah,  with  her  breath  still 
coming  in  quick,  short  gasps.  "  In  a  way, 
it  was  none  of  my  business  ;  but  really  I 
couldn't  stand  by  and  see  the  girl  make 
such  an  utter  idiot  of  herself ;  get  commit 
ted  to  that  man  forever.  If  she  wanted  to 
do  it,  I  thought,  let  her  do  it  calmly  and  on 
reflection,  not  because  she  is  carried  away 
by  the  romantic  nonsense  of  it  all." 

"  So — "  said  Desborough. 

"  So,"  answered  Miss  Haye,  half  laughing 
and  half  crying,  "  after  I  had  come  down 


264  A    FLIRT 

with  them  all  I  just  ran  upstairs  again,  put 
on  Cynthia's  wrap,  slipped  out  the  back 
way — " 

"  Really,"  said  Desborough,  beginning  to 
laugh. 

"  Yes,  and  met  Nesbitt  at  the  gate,  in  the 
place  of  Cynthia.  It's  only  three  blocks  to 
the  house,  you  know,  and  I  kept  the  hood 
pulled  over  my  face  and  said  nothing,  let 
him  do  all  the  talking,  and  he  never  sus 
pected.  When  we  got  to  the  side  door  at 
the  Wychbolds'  I  was  out  like  a  flash, 
up  the  steps  in  a  second,  and  into  the 
house  — 

"  And  then  ?"  asked  Desborough,  motion 
less  in  his  attention. 

"  Then,"  said  Miss  Haye,  finally  giving 
way  to  laughter  and  letting  herself  go  in  one 
uncontrollable  burst  of  wild  merriment,  "  I 
left  him  where  he  was,  sent  for  James,  who 
had  not  taken  out  the  horses,  to  drive  me 
back,  and  here  I  am.  I  suppose  he  is  still 
sitting  in  the  hack  in  the  dark,  wondering 
what  has  become  of  his  inamorata,  and  why 
she  does  not  come  to  join  him  with  her 
maid  and  her  luggage." 


A    FLIRT  265 

Desborough  fell  back  in  his  chair,  laugh 
ing  as  he  never  laughed  before. 

"  And  it's  a  fearfully  cold  night,"  he  said, 
when  at  length  he  could  speak. 

"  Fearfully,"  assented  Dinah,  laughing 
too,  but  with  a  suggestion  of  something  in 
her  tone  or  manner  that  indicated  that  tears 
were  not  yet  beyond  easy  call. 

"  You  really  have  saved  the  girl  from 
making  a  terrible  mistake,"  said  Desbor 
ough  at  length,  quite  seriously.  "  She 
should  be  deeply  thankful  to  you." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Dinah.  "  Still,  I  don't 
think  she  would  be  now,  even  if  she  may 
be  some  day.  How  she'd  hate  me !" 

"  She'll  probably  never  know  what  hap 
pened,"  he  answered. 

Both  were  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  every 
where,"  he  broke  out  at  length. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?" 

"  Wanted  to  see  you — yes,"  he  answered, 
"  and  now  I've  found  you  at  last,  you  must 
listen  to  me.  I  have  not  such  a  tale  of 
adventure  to  tell  as  you,  but  still  I've  got 
something  rather  exceptional  to  say  —  im- 


2t)6  A    FLIRT 

portant  to  me  at  least.  I  tried  hard  enough 
to  say  what  there  was  to  say  —  this  after 
noon — but — 

"  But,"  said  Dinah,  hurriedly,  "  you  told 
me  everything  then,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  Told  you  everything  !"  exclaimed  Des- 
borough  ;  "  why,  I  was  just  beginning  when 
'  Mrs.  Tom  '  interrupted." 

"  What  more  was  there  P1'  asked  Dinah  in 
unaffected  surprise. 

"  Why  in  the  world  do  you  suppose  I 
told  you  what  I  did?"  he  demanded,  almost 
equally  astonished. 

"  I  am  sure  I  could  not  imagine,"  she 
answered  decidedly. 

"  Because,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice 
and  drawing  a  trifle  nearer  to  her,  "  I  did 
not  want  you  to  misunderstand,  because 
I  did  not  want  to  approach  you  under 
any  false  pretences,  because  —  Dinah  dear 
—  I  have  loved  you  from  the  very  first, 
though  perhaps  I  did  not  realize  it,  and 
I  wanted  to  know  if  you  would  be  willing 
to  marry  the  man  whom  Cynthia  Leigh 
refused." 

"And  you  did  not  love  her?"  she  asked, 


"  BOTH     WERE    SILENT    FOR     A     MOMENT. 


A    FLIRT  267 

looking  swiftly  at  him  and  then  casting 
down  her  eyes. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  answered  with  full  con 
viction.  "  I  thought  that  I  admired  her 
because  I  thought  I  ought  to  do  it,  that  was 
all.  But  I  never  heard  anything  in  my  life 
with  such  pleasure  as  I  did  her  very  decid 
ed  '  no.'  Now  you  know  the  truth,  and 
do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  forget 
that  I  have  been  utterly  scorned  and  set 
aside,  and  say  '  yes,'  yourself  ?" 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  you  are  not 
mistaken  now — that  you  are  sure  you  care 
anything  for  me,  the  girl  of  whom  you  did 
not  approve  ?" 

"  Look  at  me,"  he  said,  "and  see." 

Again  she  raised  her  eyes,  met  his  glance 
for  an  instant,  and  again  looked  quickly  at 
the  floor. 

"  Dinah,"  he  said,  entreatingly,  "  say 
'  yes  ' !" 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  faintly  but  dis 
tinctly. 

He  reached  forward  as  if  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  then,  remembering  where  he  was, 
he  straightened  himself  impatiently. 


268  A    FLIRT 

"Remember,  Dinah,"  he  said,  "I  am 
only  a  poor  man.  But  I  will  try  that  you 
shall  have  what  you  want." 

"  Oh,  I  shall,"  she  answered,  gayly. 
"  You  know  I  am  thought  a  very  merce 
nary  person,  and  I  shall  have  everything." 

"  But  how  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  In  the  surest  way,"  she  replied,  looking 
at  him  with  unaverted  eyes  ;  "  not  by  choos 
ing  the  things,  but  by  choosing  the  man 
who  is  to  give  them  to  me." 

And  sliding  her  hand  along  by  her  side 
so  that  no  one  saw  what  she  did,  she  took 
his  hand  firmly  in  her  grasp. 


THE    END 


IDUNA, 

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JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  Illustrated. 
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WENDELL  PHILLIPS.  A  Eulogy.  8vo,  Paper, 
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By  BRANDER   MATTHEWS. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  STORY,  and  Other  Stories. 
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meet  with  an  essay  in  fiction  from  his  expertly  wielded  pen. — 
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AMERICANISMS  AND  BRITICISMS,  with 
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Mr.  Matthews  is  a  clear  thinker  and  a  forcible  writer, 
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THE  DECISION  OF  THE  COURT.  A  Comedy. 
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A  bright  little  comedietta,  in  which  the  author  has  shown 
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IN  THE  VESTIBULE  LIMITED.  A  Story. 
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For  compressed,  swift,  clear  narrative,  this  bit  of  genre  work 
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psychological  insight.  There  is  no  attempt  at  being  funny,  yet 
the  reader  is  continually  just  on  the  point  of  breaking  out  into 
laughter. — Interior,  Chicago. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  N.  Y. 

^£f  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will 
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